


Under My Wings You Will Find Refuge

by Fiver



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Supernatural, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Hunters, M/M, Rating May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2016-10-26
Packaged: 2017-12-14 11:55:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 102,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/836606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fiver/pseuds/Fiver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Let me come with you. It's not smart to go around fighting monsters on your own."</p>
<p>"Almost all hunters work alone."</p>
<p>"Doesn't make it any smarter."</p>
<p>In which Enjolras is going to save the innocent masses from the things that go bump in the night, and Grantaire is definitely either a lot more or a lot less than he appears. Neither of them can quite decide which it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is technically a crossover with the 'Supernatural' universe but does not feature any 'Supernatural' characters because. Well. It's set in Europe. Because Les Mis.

  
~

 

It starts with Grantaire finding himself in the musty darkness of a derelict house in one of the less touristy areas of Paris, watching a young hunter hack an unfortunate vampire’s head off.

Naturally, the creature is struggling, and as a result the first slice of the machete only slashes its throat wide open. It lets out a gurgling shriek and there is a spray of blood like a fountain. The blade descends again and again until its neck ends in a gory stump and its severed head stares blankly at the ceiling, fangs still bared.

There is a beat of stillness, and then the hunter – who is hardly more than a boy – gets to his feet. Even in the dark, Grantaire can see the blood splattered across his face and the front of his shirt, and the beads of it caught in his hair. He is breathing hard and looking down at his kill with something like triumph gleaming in his eyes.

Grantaire has a tendency to frequent this area – he feels a certain sense of _belonging_ in the most awful of places – but it was not the sounds of a hunter-vampire death-match that led him into this particular building. His tastes are not so morbid, and it was really something of a nasty surprise to stumble into such a violent scene, especially considering the beauty of what brought him here.

It was the boy’s soul.

He had sensed-seen-felt it from streets away, a human soul burning so _bright_ and pure, and it had drawn him in like an anglerfish’s lure. Even in the midst of the grisly business of decapitation, he had found himself simply staring at it. It shines like a star.

And not like a star as humans understand them – not one of those tiny pinpricks of light. Grantaire has seen stars up-close, blazing and flaring and almost too brilliant even for him to look upon. That is what he is reminded of now. He can’t remember the last time he saw a human who burned quite so brightly.

He thinks it’s unfortunate that this magnificent soul belongs to a hunter.

Still, he is fascinated, and that is a rare thing these days.

The boy does not see him watching – Grantaire is very good at going unnoticed when he wants to. For now, he leaves the blood-stained human to clean up the mess he’s made.

 ~

Grantaire takes up his usual place in the dimmest corner of the Musain. It’s an old haunt of his, though he hasn’t visited in a while. It was the closest establishment he could think of that caters almost exclusively to hunters looking for their next job, and he thinks he won’t have to wait long for he-of-the-blazing-soul to appear.

He’s not wrong. The boy – Grantaire supposes he really should consider him a man, but he does look _so very young –_ comes in barely an hour later. He’s nicely cleaned up – no trace of blood in his curling hair or on his crisp white shirt. You’d never guess he was a killer, looking like that. He pauses briefly at the top of the stairs before heading directly for a table where another young man is sitting with his fingers flying over the keys of a laptop. Grantaire knows this one – Combeferre, almost a permanent fixture here, forever monitoring the length and breadth of France (and, indeed, the rest of mainland Europe) for potential cases.

He settles back and drinks deeply from the wineglass in his hand. Even from this distance, he can hear their hushed conversation perfectly. He learns that he-of-the-blazing soul is called Enjolras, and that he suspects that the vampire he just killed had friends in the city. Combeferre agrees – they both think there’s a nest, and they want to track it down.

Grantaire does his best to suppress a smile. They’re right, and they’re wrong. The ill-fated vampire had indeed been part of a small group, but they’re nomadic – arrived in Paris last month, and preparing to leave already. And they’ll clear out double-quick when they realise their comrade has been most rudely beheaded.

In a perfect world, he could simply tell Combeferre and Enjolras this and save them some time, but alas – it doesn’t do well to let on how much you know in the presence of hunters.

He waits until their discussion begins to wind down and they agree to reconvene the next day. Combeferre starts to pack away his laptop, Enjolras stands to go, and Grantaire rises and sets a fresh bottle of wine down on their table.

“We have a new face, I see,” he says with his best smile. Enjolras does not return it, and just regards him with narrow-eyed suspicion. “You haven’t introduced us, Combeferre. How neglectful of you.”

“I didn’t notice you skulking,” Combeferre says, amused. Enjolras shoots him a questioning frown, as if silently asking whether he needs to draw a weapon. “No, don’t worry, Grantaire’s a regular here. Doesn’t do much in the way of monster-killing but he does like to hear everyone else’s exploits.”

“Their tales are my ambrosia and nectar,” Grantaire agrees. He’s been a regular here much longer than Combeferre knows – since long before Combeferre was born, in fact, with periodic breaks to ensure that no one noticed his failure to, say, age.

“This is Enjolras,” Combeferre offers when the man himself does not.

“And I’m not one for telling tales,” Enjolras says shortly. Some added insult along the lines of _‘not to an apparent wine-guzzling layabout such as you’_ is unspoken but heavily implied.

“Not even in exchange for a glass of wine after a hard day’s hunting?” Grantaire says, uncorking the bottle. He’s being irritating and he knows it, but he also knows that to back down now would be to lose Enjolras’s attention completely, and that can’t happen. That soul is the brightest and most beautiful thing he’s seen in too many long years, and he can’t allow it out of his sight again.

“I don’t drink,” Enjolras replies. Grantaire can’t help it – he laughs.

“Wow, you really must be new to this game,” he says, ignoring the flash of mute fury in Enjolras’s eyes at his mirth at his expense. “Give it maybe a year. The thought that you once turned down a free drink will horrify you.”

“Enjolras has been hunting for at least three years now,” Combeferre puts in quietly. He looks like he’s fighting down a smile.

“And even that is more information than I’d normally share with a complete stranger in a bar.” Enjolras makes another valiant attempt to extract himself from their company. He makes it to the top of the stairs this time before Grantaire’s next words freeze him in place.

“Let me guess. Your mother?”

Enjolras peers at him over his shoulder. He’s still frowning, suspicious and now halfway puzzled as well, but Grantaire is dismayed to realise that, even so, he’s beautiful. He doesn’t know if it’s the effect of that supernova of a soul, but in any case, it’s hypnotic, and he knows that he is lost.

“My mother?” Enjolras repeats. He clearly thinks this is some sort of insult and looks about five seconds away from punching Grantaire in the jaw.

“It’s your age that makes me assume as much,” Grantaire explains, sitting himself down at Combeferre’s table. “In my experience, it tends to be a parent with people around your age. And, for one reason or another, murdered mothers seem to be a much greater motivator than fathers.”

“What is he talking about?” Enjolras asked, his sharp gaze flicking to Combeferre.

“Your hunting origin story, of course,” Grantaire says with a grin.

“The reason you started hunting,” Combeferre kindly interprets. “A lot of people start after someone close to them gets killed by a monster of some kind.”

“There’s _always_ someone who got killed,” Grantaire corrects. “The plotline is always the same. It’s the details that make or break the story.”

“No one got killed,” Enjolras says. Grantaire raises an eyebrow.

“Family matter, then?” he suggests. “Some great-great-great aunt got eaten by a werewolf and now the job of fighting evil has come down the generations to you?”

“No,” Enjolras says. He’s facing them properly again now, looking torn between anger and sheer incredulity.

For the second time that night, Grantaire tilts his head back and laughs. He can’t remember the last time he laughed so much.

“In that case,” he says finally, “you definitely should not be hunting.”

Enjolras positively _scowls_ at him, and that golden soul flares deep red for a moment. He’s furious, and that’s good. That means he’ll stay, because he now has a point to make.

Sure enough, he strides back to the table, hauls out an empty chair and plants himself in it, his eyes never leaving Grantaire’s face. It’s probably meant to be intimidating, but his attention is more flattering than anything else.

And Enjolras tells his story.

Unsurprisingly, he is different; he is possibly _unique_. He spoke true: he has no tragic back-story to produce as justification of his decision to hunt. Grantaire has listened to countless hunters passing through the Musain, and various other holes-in-the-wall just like it, and their tales have, after some time, begun to blur into one endless whine about murdered parents or siblings or spouses or friends. Their bitter tears and vows of revenge are such a bore, and vengefulness is such an unpretty trait. Grantaire finds them almost embarrassing, if he ever briefly allows himself the gall to pass judgement on any creature other than himself. They are like mocking reminders that, despite all their modern-day technology and fancy clothes and preoccupation with slips of paper to which they had assigned value, humans are still not so far removed from the wild animals of the earth, which also have a tendency to become savage when threatened by a predator.

Though animals, of course, only act out of self-preservation. They have no concept of grudges or revenge, and they certainly never start to enjoy the act of killing. Those particular vices belong to humankind alone. Sometimes Grantaire despairs with them.

But Enjolras is a revelation; Enjolras is a strange and beautiful anomaly. He discovered the world of monsters and hunters completely by accident.

“There was a cemetery that I cut through sometimes to get home,” he says when Grantaire presses him for details of this chance encounter. After so many years of hearing the same tedious, woeful tales, this is wonderful and fascinating and he wants to know everything. “One night, I saw a man throw a match into an open grave and burn the bones there. I asked him why, and he told me.” He pauses. “He was very drunk. If he hadn’t been, I expect he would have lied.”

“Hunters do that a lot,” Grantaire agrees. He himself is not nearly as drunk as he’d like to be, though tonight it is bearable since he has this captivating human boy to distract him from the gaping vacuum echoing hollowly at his core. It is difficult for him to get drunk when in company, anyway. Even the sullen, uninterested patrons of the Musain were likely to notice that the amount of alcohol it took to make his head feel just pleasantly fuzzy was enough to kill a normal person. Or two.

“He told me I should forget it. That I shouldn’t get involved.”

“He was right about that,” Grantaire says with a half-smile and a nod. “But you didn’t listen.”

“Of course I didn’t.” Enjolras looks startled and revolted by the very idea that he could have simply continued on with his normal life – could have walked away from the crazy drunk in the graveyard, finished his studies, maybe got married and had a few kids. That was unthinkable, apparently.

And here is why: because Enjolras believes in the basic goodness of people – people everywhere, people he will never meet or know – and, by extension, he believes that they don’t deserve to be eaten, eviscerated, mangled or horribly killed in any other fashion by the creatures that lurk in the dark.

It’s obviously all very clear and logical in Enjolras’s head; soon almost everyone in the Musain is listening (with something between amusement and contempt) as he tries to explain himself. Until now, he seemed only irked by Grantaire’s insistence upon conversation; now, suddenly, Grantaire has his full and undivided attention. He gets the impression that Enjolras could speak passionately about the validity of his cause to absolutely anyone. Anything, even. A donkey. A wall.

It seems that it is as simple as this: people are good, and monsters are bad. The moment that he learned the truth about the world’s ugly, secret dangers, Enjolras ceased to truly be either. That knowledge had been given to him, had armed him and turned him into a _force,_ and he had to choose which side he would fight against. To know the truth was to take on the responsibility of protecting others from it. To know the truth and to ignore it would be a crime – Enjolras uses the word ‘sin’, which Grantaire finds interesting. He asks if this is a religious venture. Enjolras says it is not. He is not serving God, he is serving humankind, because that is what he is meant to do.

A moral compulsion, then. Grantaire has always been dubious about human morals. They are so prone to change and, often, complete reversal. Though Enjolras’s bright eyes and steadily shining soul suggest that he will remain steadfast to this belief until it inevitably kills him.

He looks unspeakably frustrated when, even after his sermon is done, Grantaire continues to look at him with the same bemused expression. Enjolras thinks he doesn’t understand. He’s wrong; Grantaire certainly _understands_ what he’s saying, in an objective sort of way. What he can’t do is believe in the (certainly beautiful and certainly wistful) idea that people are worth fighting for. That strangers who have done nothing for Enjolras are worth his life. Grantaire has been around a long time. He has seen horrors. He cannot blindly and wholeheartedly love the human race.

He was supposed to, of course. He chances a closer look at Enjolras, suddenly suspicious, searching for any sign that he is anything more or less than a normal human. He sees nothing except that glorious golden light – that steady beacon of belief and certainty and determination.

But perhaps, he thinks darkly, it was not chance that caused Enjolras to meet that drunken hunter in a cemetery that night. Perhaps there is still a higher force meddling in the lives of humans. Because, to Grantaire, Enjolras seems a lot like the bright-burning, fierce and proud soldier that he himself was always meant to be. A perfect product of Heaven’s factory line.

“I think that you’re mad,” Grantaire says finally, when Enjolras seems quite finished. “You hunt simply because you _can._ That’s ridiculous.”

“No, it’s the whole point,” Enjolras insists. His cheeks are flushed red. Grantaire can tell he wants to stand up and shout at him but is doing his very best to remain composed. “If it’s within my power to save people and I choose not to, what does that make me?”

“Sensible. Self-preserving. Normal,” Grantaire says bluntly. He downs the rest of his wine, though he knows it won’t help. It isn’t nearly enough. “You were not dragged into this world, you chose it, and that’s ridiculous too because it’s the last thing anyone should choose. Hunters lead miserable lives and then they die in a pool of their own blood. The ones who fight for revenge die for nothing. And you,” he pauses, shakes his head, “you will die for less than nothing.”

Enjolras gets to his feet again. He’s had enough. His soul is a red-black maelstrom of anger and disgust and disappointment.

“And you?” he says bitingly. “When you finally die, sick and old in your bed, what will you be dying for?”

 And to that, Grantaire has no reply. Enjolras nods once, decisively, and then he’s marching down the stairs before anyone can stop him.

Grantaire smiles ruefully to himself. The scenario Enjolras described will, of course, never come to fruition. Age is no threat to Grantaire, and there is no sickness on this Earth that could harm him. If he carries on the way he has all this time, he will live forever.

And so, really, the question is: what is he living for?

And the obvious answer is: nothing, at the moment. But he does have a plan to change that.

He follows Enjolras out of the Musain.

He finds him easily, despite the speed he’s stomping along at. Finding any ordinary person in Paris would be like looking for a specific piece of hay in a haystack. Finding Enjolras is like looking for the part of the haystack that’s on fire.

“I can help you,” Grantaire calls down the street to him. He sees Enjolras jump and then turn to face him with a glare, all the more angry for being startled.

“What could you help me with?” he snaps.

“With your quest to cleanse the world of all evil, of course,” Grantaire replies, trying to keep his smile from looking _too_ sardonic. “With your grand cause.”

“The cause that you think is stupid and pointless and not my responsibility at all?” Enjolras says.

“That one, yes.”

“Leave me alone,” Enjolras says irritably, resuming his stride.

“I have a weapon that would be immensely useful to you,” Grantaire goes on, following him step for step. “A weapon that can kill anything.”

“There’s no such thing.”

“But there is.” Grantaire’s blade appears in his hand, and Enjolras will surely wonder where he was hiding it all this time, but at least he didn’t see him produce it from nowhere. Enjolras turns quickly, his well-honed hunter’s danger-senses obviously perceiving that a weapon was drawn. His eyes find the blade, glinting in the orange glow of the streetlights.

“What is it?” he asks, looking curious despite himself.

“I’ve picked up many interesting things on my travels,” Grantaire says with a small shrug. “I don’t know where it comes from, or who made it. But I do know that it works.”

Ah, the lies. How he hates all the lying. But there is truth there, too – it _will_ kill anything, and that is the part that Enjolras has to believe.

It seems that it would wound Enjolras’s pride to give in and walk back to him, so Grantaire goes to him instead. He offers him the blade and he takes it gingerly. Grantaire sees the small, blue-white starbursts of surprise in his soul at the feel of it in his hand – its weight and balance and the way that its surface feels warm and oddly _charged._

“What is it made from?” he asks. “Silver?”

“No. No one knows exactly what it’s made from.” Grantaire knows, of course, but no human language has the words to describe the raw material that makes a blade like his.

“Then how does it work?”

“Easy. You stab things with it.”

Enjolras shoots him a withering glance.

“I mean,” he says, “how does it _work?_ ”

“Does it matter? What’s important is that it _does_ work,” Grantaire says.

“I only have your word for that.”

“How true.”

“You expect that to be enough?”

“Hardly,” Grantaire says dryly.

“Then what?”

“Take it,” Grantaire says simply, taking a step back. “Give it a try. See if you can find anything it won’t kill. Give it, say, a month. Then we’ll have a talk.”

“About what?”

“About you keeping it.”

Enjolras turns the three-sided, tapering blade over in his hands, looking sorely tempted despite his spoken misgivings. He can feel it, Grantaire thinks. Consciously or otherwise, he can feel how powerful that sword is.

“Why would you give me this?” he asks finally. Grantaire chuckles.

“Because I can,” he says, because he’s quickly discovering that teasing Enjolras is fun, and he can’t resist.

When Enjolras next looks up, he’s gone.

 ~

His name, of course, is not really Grantaire.

Grantaire isn’t even the name of the human man who once owned this body. That man had been good and brave and his soul had happily gone to Heaven when given the chance. He would not sully that good man’s name by using it as his alias while he hides down here like a rat in a sewer.

‘Grantaire’ is an invention; it is almost a joke. Because he has not forgotten his true name; the name that the entire Host sang glory to on the day of his creation. A name of great power that means ‘God is my comforter’; ‘God is my mercy’.

He isn’t sure whether he feels he has become unworthy of that name, or if he simply wants nothing to do with it any more.

In any case, it will always be a part of him, and so he thought he might as well keep the first letter.

And so he is just ‘R’.

And so he is Grantaire.

 ~

A month to the day later, Enjolras returns to the Musain, and doesn’t look entirely surprised to see Grantaire waiting for him in his habitual corner. He bypasses Combeferre’s table and heads straight for Grantaire’s, and Grantaire has to try not to smile.

“Happy hunting?” he enquires as Enjolras reaches him. He doesn’t sit down, but presses both his hands flat on the table and leans over it, his eyes ( _blue,_ Grantaire notes distantly) boring into Grantaire’s.

“What is this weapon?” he hisses. “It kills vampires without decapitation, it banishes ghosts better than iron, it kills werewolves even though it isn’t silver.”

“Goodness, you have been busy,” Grantaire says with raised eyebrows. “I did tell you. You’ll find it kills demons, too.”

“Demons,” Enjolras repeats, sounding a little faint.

“Yes.”

“Nothing kills demons.”

“The blade does,” Grantaire says with a shrug. He has another bottle of wine and two glasses waiting on the table. He pours one for Enjolras and slides it across to him. He makes no protest this time; just sinks slowly into a chair and curls his fingers around the glass’s stem.

“Where did you get that blade?” he asks at length.

“Very far from here,” Grantaire replies. It’s not an answer, but he suspects that Enjolras has a more pressing question for him. He’s right.

“And how long have you had it?” Enjolras asks.

“A very long time.”

“And you just kept it? Never _did_ anything with it?”

“Oh, it’s seen battle aplenty,” Grantaire says. He’s not sure if he should be proud or horribly ashamed of how much blood has been spilled by his blade, but either way he isn’t willing to lie about it.

“Combeferre said you don’t hunt.”

“You could say I’m retired, I suppose,” Grantaire says, and that much certainly is true.

“A little young to be retired, aren’t you?” Enjolras says with clear disapproval, and Grantaire has to fight down a laugh because _good God, if you only knew._

“Maybe,” he agrees. “So. Do you want it?”

Enjolras blinks.

“The blade?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“I- of course. Any hunter would want it.”

“I’m inclined to let you keep it,” Grantaire says after a casual sip of his wine – as if he isn’t literally giving away a part of himself. “On one condition.”

Enjolras’s eyes narrow, and Grantaire just has time to see his soul blossom bright orange with sudden panic before he finds himself with water sloshing over his face and soaking the collar of his shirt. He sees the small flask that Enjolras has produced, cobra-fast, from his pocket, and he laughs. Holy water.

“No, no. I’m not a demon. This is not that kind of deal,” he says, wiping his face with his sleeve. Enjolras doesn’t apologise for drenching him; just recaps the flask and stows it away somewhere in his coat.

“I had to be sure,” he says shortly. “You have to admit, it’s more than a little suspicious. A stranger showing up and offering me something so powerful.”

“You don’t know what I’m asking for in return yet,” Grantaire reminds him with a grin. “Maybe you won’t consider it such a bargain once I say.”

“What is your condition, then?” Enjolras asks.

“Let me come with you,” Grantaire says simply. Enjolras just blinks at him again.

“What?” he says.

“You travel around, don’t you?” Grantaire prompts. “If you only hunted in Paris, I’d have seen you in here before now.”

“Yes. Combeferre finds most of the cases and tells me where to go next.”

“So let me come with you,” Grantaire says again. “It’s not smart to go around fighting monsters on your own.”

“Almost all hunters work alone,” Enjolras says, confused.

“Doesn’t make it any smarter.”

“Why do you want to come with me?”

“I’m bored. And it seems like it could be...an adventure.” Grantaire is still smiling, and he can tell that Enjolras thinks he is simultaneously avoiding the question and making fun of him, and he’s not wrong.

“You think what I do is stupid,” Enjolras points out.

“Not stupid, _ridiculous_ ,” Grantaire corrects. “In a sort of...‘no human being should be that selfless and idealistic and self-sacrificing’ way. You’re crazy, but it’s sort of amazing.”

Enjolras looks slightly stunned by that.

“What do you care what I think, anyway?” Grantaire goes on. “You get the sword, and you get the pleasure of my company as a bonus. Win-win.”

Enjolras looks horribly torn, but Grantaire knows he’ll agree. He wants the blade, _needs_ it – he’s probably already started imagining all the _good_ he can do with it, all those precious human lives he can save with such a weapon.

“You’re not allowed to slow me down,” Enjolras says finally, with an air of defeat.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Grantaire replies.

“And don’t think I won’t be watching you,” Enjolras says coldly. “I don’t trust you. And if this is some bizarre trick or trap, believe me: I’ll end you.”

“Understood,” Grantaire says, doing his very best to disguise his glee. Enjolras nods curtly and leaves to talk to Combeferre – probably to plan his ( _their_ ) next move.

Grantaire settles back, drinks some more wine. He’d been planning to open a bottle of something stronger, but now maybe he won’t need to. Not tonight, at least.

He knows what he is; he knows this is part of his programming. He was built to worship, to follow and obey. And those things still come easily to him, even if he is just a broken wreck of what he used to be, and even if nothing he once believed in holds true anymore. Enjolras has belief enough for them both. Grantaire has drifted in the dark too long, watching humanity putrefy around him and drinking his human vessel into a perpetual numb stupor. Always hoping, deep down, for some _reason_ to continue existing, some purpose he could give himself over to.

He thinks he’s found it now.

Enjolras, he-of-the-blazing-soul, thinks that he can save this slowly rotting world. He is elbow-deep in the blood of monsters because he _loves,_ because he believes with such intensity that it turned his soul into a star.

And Grantaire will follow him to the ends of the earth.

He has no faith left in God, and so he will believe in Enjolras instead. And he will follow him and protect him until Enjolras, ever the proficient hunter, realises what he really is, and kills him with his own blade. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Protect yourself,” Combeferre said. “Until we know more, that’s all you can do. You’ve got your anti-possession tattoo. We’ll make new hex-bags. We’ll test him with silver, holy water, iron, and anything else we can think of.”
> 
> “And then?”
> 
> “And then you’ll have a travelling companion, I suppose.” Combeferre sounded like he might be smiling. “And we’ll see what we see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who read chapter one! I was legitimately worried that, like, no one would.
> 
> Feel free to come say hi on [tumblr](http://www.fivie.tumblr.com)!

  
  
~

 

Grantaire knows that, after reluctantly agreeing to let him tag along on his monster-hunting travels, Enjolras had a second and much more in-depth discussion with Combeferre about his trustworthiness. Grantaire knows because he heard them, despite the fact that the conversation occurred in a closed-off back room of the Musain, where the two of them assumed they were safely out of earshot.

It seemed that Enjolras had worked himself into a temper trying to puzzle out Grantaire’s motives. He blurted out the details of their agreement to Combeferre in a furious rush and, in his agitation, failed to provide much context. Combeferre, ever the level-headed voice of reason, suggested that he sit down and try that again, starting from the beginning.

Grantaire could only hear them (he _could_ have watched, too, but he felt slightly less guilty if he allowed them some measure of privacy) but, in his mind’s eye, he could practically see Enjolras pacing the room, with his hands in fists and his soul giving off roiling sparks of conflicting colours. He seemed to yield to Combeferre’s calming influence, however, and the next time he spoke, he gave a much more straight-forward account of the situation. He told Combeferre about everything he didn’t already know, and he showed him the blade.

Again, Grantaire could not see them. But he felt it the moment Enjolras handed the blade over for inspection. He always knew exactly where his sword was.

He felt a brief flare of concern, then, that this little undertaking would be over before it was even begun. Because Combeferre was a guiding light to so many of the hunters who passed through Paris, with his impossibly in-depth knowledge of so many elements of the supernatural, and if anyone could identify his blade, it was him.

But that was impossible, Grantaire argued with himself, because humans had no records of such a thing. Most of them didn’t even believe in his kind, and those who did had unfortunate delusions of fluffy wings and harps and all-encompassing love for mankind, all of which were entirely wrong. Especially that last one.

His worry was unfounded; Combeferre was quick to admit that he’d never seen nor heard of anything the likes of Enjolras’s new weapon. He was fascinated when Enjolras listed all the things he knew it could kill, and even more so when he added that Grantaire claimed it could even kill demons. Combeferre’s interest was more scholarly; he wanted to know what the blade was made of, who could have made it, what kind of witchcraft or old magic could possibly have imbued it with such deadly power. Enjolras had already ceased to care about any of those things. He’d tried and tested it, he knew it worked, and he wanted to keep it.

Which brought them back to the subject of Grantaire.

Despite assuring Enjolras of Grantaire’s harmlessness that first night they’d met, Combeferre was understandably mystified to hear of his sudden interest in hunting – or, at least, in travelling around with a hunter. He told Enjolras everything he knew – that Grantaire had been a familiar figure in the Musain for as long as he could remember, and that he had knowledge of the supernatural and the hunting community but never seemed inclined to put the knowledge to any good use. He was quick to add that, as far as he knew, Grantaire had never caused any _harm,_ either, but that didn’t seem to comfort Enjolras much.

“He hasn’t changed his mind about anything,” Enjolras said with frustration. Grantaire guessed he was pacing again. “He has no concept of the greater good, or putting a cause before yourself. He still thinks that is...ridiculous, was his word. He sits and does nothing and yet he looks _down_ on us. But now he produces this weapon from nowhere, puts it in my hand and says that he wants to...I don’t know. Follow me around and watch me put it to use. Why?”

“Maybe he likes you,” Combeferre said, and Grantaire had to bite back a peal of laughter because he could just imagine the _look_ Enjolras sent him for that.

“Did you have any idea that he was in possession of this blade?” he asked instead of dignifying Combeferre’s suggestion with any sort of response.

“If I’d have any idea that a blade like this _existed,_ you would have known about it.”

“How did he come to own it? And _where?_ ”

“I don’t know, Enjolras.”

“He said that he’s travelled a lot.”

“It’s possible. He’s been known to disappear for months at a time.”

“But for what purpose? Where does he go? Does no one know his _history?_ ”

“No. Really, Enjolras, sit down. Wearing a groove in the floorboards isn’t going to help anything.”

Enjolras grumbled but seemed to obey.

“All anyone knows is that he comes here frequently, listens to the hunters’ stories, and looks at them with the worst sort of pity,” Combeferre said. “He considers hunters to be the damned of mankind. The walking dead, I suppose.”

“But that’s not-”

“I’m just saying. The fact is that Grantaire thinks of hunters that way, and yet he surrounds himself with them. That in itself is illogical. Maybe going with you is just...the next illogical step.”

“...No,” Enjolras said after a moment of consideration. “No, there’s some other factor we don’t know about.”

Grantaire’s lips twitched into a half-smile. Clever boy.

“We can only work with what we know,” Combeferre sighed. “Yes, this could be a trap. He could have some unsavoury ulterior motive. He could, in fact, not be human at all, though there are ways to confirm that. You know all this. But if you want to keep that blade, and I know that you _do,_ then it’s a risk you’re going to have to take.”

“This has not been a helpful conversation.”

“Your only other options are either to return the blade to him, or break your word and take off with it.”

“I’m not a liar or a thief,” Enjolras snapped, before pausing. “Except when I have to be. You know.”

“In the line of duty, yes,” Combeferre said, sounding amused. “Anyway, I agree, stealing it would be ill-advised. If he’s had such a weapon all this time, who knows what else he might have at his disposal.”

Enjolras groaned.

“I don’t like complications,” he said. “I don’t like not knowing what I’m getting into.”

“Protect yourself,” Combeferre said. “Until we know more, that’s all you can do. You’ve got your anti-possession tattoo. We’ll make new hex-bags. We’ll test him with silver, holy water, iron, and anything else we can think of.”

“And then?”

“And then you’ll have a travelling companion, I suppose.” Combeferre sounded like he might be smiling. “And we’ll see what we see.”

And that, apparently, was the end of the discussion.

After that Grantaire was summoned to that same back room, where he submitted to their various tests with good humour. Really, the hardest part was keeping the shallow cut they gave him with a silver knife from healing right in front of their eyes.

Quite quickly, they ran out of things to poke and prod him with. After one last splash of holy water just for good measure, Enjolras abruptly instructed him to meet him at Gare de l’Est at eight o’clock the following evening. He took his leave, calling over his shoulder for Combeferre to get Grantaire up to speed on the case.

Grantaire listened dutifully while Combeferre told him where they were going and how they were getting there and described the string of mysterious deaths that they’d be investigating. When he’d been thoroughly briefed, Combeferre gave a long sigh, plucked his glasses off his nose and started idly cleaning them.

“I don’t suppose you’d just tell me what this is all about?” he asked.

“You’re worried?” Grantaire said.

“This is very out of character for you. As far as I can tell, anyway.”

“Maybe. I suppose you could say it’s a case of ‘not even I can do nothing forever’.”

Combeferre smiled faintly.

“Why Enjolras?” he asked. Grantaire laughed and got to his feet.

“Maybe I just like him,” he said with a conspiratorial wink.

“You wouldn’t be the only one,” Combeferre replied. He was as calm and collected as ever, but his tone had a certain hard edge to it. Grantaire looked at him and read protectiveness, and a quiet ferocity he’d do well to stay on the good side of.

“I don’t know if it counts for much,” he said, “but I promise you that I won’t let any harm come to him.”

And that much, at least, was completely true.

~

Now, Grantaire and Enjolras are on the night train to Munich. Their compartment has two narrow beds, attached to the walls at opposite ends of the car, and a small table in between. They’re both sitting at the table just now, though Grantaire has pushed his chair back a little to give Enjolras, who is visibly twitchy, some space.

At Munich, they will change trains, and the next one will take them on to Budapest, where their case is. It’s going to be a nineteen-hour journey. A plane would get them there a lot faster, but Grantaire knows that flying is not any hunter’s favoured mode of transport, because good luck to anyone who tries to get monster-killing paraphernalia through airport security.

The first hour of the journey passes in tense silence, with Enjolras keeping his eyes stubbornly trained on his case notes or his laptop screen. Grantaire chooses not to bother him. He’s content enough to watch the passing scenery and quietly bask in the warm glow of the starburst-soul that had started this whole adventure – even if its usual vibrant gold is being partly obscured by a growing grey cloud of apprehension and prickly annoyance.

He can pinpoint the exact moment that Enjolras gives up on brooding. That swirl of grey is swept unceremoniously to the side and just as quickly replaced by vibrant, determined red.

“What exactly are you planning to do when we reach Budapest?” he asks, snapping his laptop shut. Grantaire blinks at him.

“My first stop will be the nearest liquor store, I expect,” he replies. Enjolras’s lips thin.

“I mean in regards to the job,” he says. “Are you following me around Europe strictly as a spectator or are you actually going to be of assistance?”

“I’m going to be your backup,” Grantaire says simply. “I’ll be helping.”

“Even though I’ve never needed backup before.”

“Yes.”

“Can you fight?”

“Yes. You’ll see.”

“You’ve hunted before?”

“I’ve killed plenty of monsters.” And non-monsters, for that matter, and the memories make the bile rise in his throat.

“Ah, yes. Before you ‘retired’.” Enjolras leans back in his seat, folds his arms and surveys him coolly. “You just...stopped.”

“It may come as a surprise to you,” Grantaire says mildly, “but killing, for whatever reason, does lose its novelty after some time.”

That makes Enjolras pause. It seems it genuinely never occurred to him that a person could simply get tired of the bloodshed.

“You’re fighting against a tide of evil that can’t be stopped,” Grantaire tells him. “You’re just one man. You’ve shown up to the aftermath of an earthquake with a broom. You could fight your whole life and not make a dent in the number of monsters crawling this Earth. When you realise that, maybe you’ll just stop, too.”

The fire is back in Enjolras’s eyes, and in his soul. For the first time, Grantaire shuts his eyes against its brilliance. Nothing should burn that brightly in the face of hopeless odds.

“You’re saying I can’t save the world on my own?” Enjolras asks.

“Of course you can’t.”

“Maybe that’s true. But maybe that’s okay. I just need to save as many people as it’s within my power to save.”

Grantaire looks at him bleakly.

 “You could do so much, and yet you choose this,” he says, shaking his head.

“I’m saving people! What more could I do? What could be better?”

 _But what about you?_ Grantaire wants to scream at him. _You’re so beautiful and full of love, but you’ll never have a home or a family and when you die, you’ll die bloody and screaming and you’ll realise it was for nothing-!_

Except that isn’t going to happen.

Enjolras isn’t going to die like that.

At least, not _before_ he figures out that his travelling companion isn’t human and skewers him on that wonderful blade that kills anything.

They both recognise that they’ve reached an impasse, and they fall silent. Enjolras only manages to keep quiet for a few minutes, though.

“Anyway, you’ve just chosen the exact same thing, haven’t you?” he says. Grantaire laughs a little.

“I suppose that’s true,” he concedes.

(It isn’t, but he thinks it might be early days to come out with something like ‘actually, I chose _you_ because it seems that I’m a very foolish moth and you’re the flame that’s going to burn my wings off’.)

There is another brief silence, but Grantaire can tell by the grim tendrils of wispy purple-blue in his peripheral vision that Enjolras is simply preparing himself for another round of verbal sparring.

“I want to know how you came by the blade,” he says suddenly, as if he might surprise an answer out of Grantaire.

“I didn’t come by it,” Grantaire replies. He keeps his gaze fixed on the reddening sunset beyond the window. “It’s mine. I’ve always had it.”

“You said you found it when you were travelling.” Enjolras’s voice is accusing.

“I don’t think I said that, exactly.”

“You said it was from somewhere a long way away from Paris.”

“That’s true.” Grantaire allows himself a glance in Enjolras’s direction; unsurprisingly, his soul is practically bubbling over with curiosity and impatience and the type of mistrust that is only born of the suspicion that you are being lied to. “The blade is mine by birth. It’s from my home. And that’s a _very_ long way from Paris.”

“Where?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“It’s a family heirloom?”

“Something like that.” More like a family tradition, really, in that every single family member carries one.

“So you’re from a family of hunters?”

“I’d rather not talk about my family.”

And those might be the truest words he’s spoken in quite a while. To his surprise, Enjolras doesn’t pursue that particular question. Maybe family isn’t his favourite subject either.

They then proceed to have the same conversation about five times over. The pattern goes like this: Enjolras asks for details about the blade, Grantaire is evasive. Enjolras persists; Grantaire teasingly scolds him for looking a gift-horse in the mouth. Enjolras asks, again, why Grantaire would give him his sword, when he barely knows him and seems to disdain what little he does know. Grantaire tries to think of a reply that isn’t ‘because I can’t save you and this is the next best thing’. Enjolras scowls and fumes and says that he can’t very well travel with someone that he can’t trust, and he certainly can’t trust someone whose actions make no sense and whose explanations for those actions are about as substantial as smoke. He insists that he needs to know more – about Grantaire and the blade and _everything –_ and thus the cycle begins again.

Five times.

“It’s late,” Grantaire says before round six can begin. “We should get some sleep.”

Enjolras shoots him a dark look that promises _this isn’t over._ He’s a riotous jumble of colours – an eye-stinging combination of scarlet fury and electric-purple frustration beneath a grey fug of exhaustion. Despite this, he goes to his bunk and sits with his laptop on his knees, furiously typing away at something or another. An email to Combeferre, no doubt. Grantaire knows they had agreed for Enjolras to make timed check-ins with Combeferre at the Musain during the course of their travels, just in case Grantaire decides to try and murder him halfway across Germany, or something.

He can tell by the stubborn and wildly distrustful look in Enjolras’s eyes that he won’t be sleeping tonight.

Grantaire, of course, doesn’t need to sleep.

He figures it’s going to be a long night of pretending.

~

They finally get into Budapest at about two o’clock the following afternoon. As Grantaire predicted, Enjolras did not sleep for the entire journey. Instead, he drank coffee and read the case notes until he must have been able to recite them word for word. Therefore, as they disembark from the train, he is grouchy and over-caffeinated and slightly unsteady on his feet. Just for added effect, it’s raining. Enjolras glowers at the sky.

“It’s a beautiful city, no matter the weather,” Grantaire offers.

“We’re not here as tourists,” Enjolras says, pulling out a map upon which Combeferre has marked the route from the train station to their hotel.

“No, we’re here because three people are dead and no one can explain why. We’ll deal with that first, of course. Doesn’t mean we can’t admire the architecture before we leave. Visit the palaces, stroll along the banks of the Danube.”

“That would be time-consuming and pointless.”

“You wretched philistine,” Grantaire says with dismay that is only half-faked.

Enjolras fixes him with a sour look over the top of the map before turning to lead the way. Grantaire follows without question. He finds after a moment, however, that he does actually have one question.

“Enjolras?”

“What?”

“Do you speak Hungarian?”

“...No.” Grantaire can’t see Enjolras’s face, but the edges of his soul glow faintly pink. He laughs; Enjolras ignores him.

“This is going to be fun,” he remarks.

He hums ‘The Blue Danube’ all the way to the hotel.

~

Grantaire does speak Hungarian. He speaks all human languages – and, for that matter, all non-human ones. But he can’t tell Enjolras that. And he feels that Enjolras might consider his ability to chitchat with the Budapest locals to be a little bit tooconvenient, and so he keeps his mouth shut.

He decides he needs to ascertain which languages Enjolras does know, and based on that he can decide which ones Grantaire-the-less-than-average-human should know. For now, it can wait.

Their hotel room is basic but clean and perfectly adequate. Grantaire knows that hostels are the cheapest places to stay while travelling around Europe, but the very thought of Enjolras slumming it in a bunk bed in a room with six strangers is enough to make him agree with whoever opted to pay for them to have more private accommodation. Enjolras isn’t coping very well with sharing space with one stranger.

“Maybe you should take a nap before you start any monster-hunting heroics,” Grantaire says as Enjolras adjusts his coat one last time. The blade is concealed in an inner pocket.

(He doesn’t dress like a hunter. He’s too clean, too smart, too bright and vivid. It’s the coat, mostly. The dark jeans and today’s grey shirt look more like an ensemble for a casual dinner party than for the often messy business of monster-killing, but they’re passable. The coat is red. It’s like a warning. Enjolras isn’t planning on hiding from any creature. The monsters will always see him coming, and if they’re smart, they’re the ones who’ll hide.)

“Why would I do that?” Enjolras asks. His face is pale and his eyes are bloodshot. His hands are jittery, probably from that last espresso he gulped down like it was water.

“Because you’re tired.”

“I can’t waste time.”

“Why not? We can’t do anything until tonight.”

Enjolras shoots him a questioning look. He shrugs.

“We can’t pose as police officers or journalists or any of those popular hunter aliases when neither of us knows the language,” he says. “Combeferre said the plan was that we’d break into one of the victim’s homes after dark.”

“...There has to be something I can do now,” Enjolras mutters, making to stride past him. Grantaire catches his arm. Enjolras tugs it out of his grip immediately, but he does stop.

They each have a key-card to the hotel room. Grantaire pulls his out of his pocket, holds it up for Enjolras to see, and pointedly throws it down on his bed.

“I’m going out,” he says, heading for the door. “I’ll meet you downstairs at eleven. Until then...well. This door’s locked from the inside. Sleep with the blade under your pillow, if you like. Just sleep.”

And he leaves.

He figures that they’re going to have a problem, if Enjolras doesn’t learn to shut both eyes around him soon.

 ~

Grantaire had taken the time to read over the information Combeferre had gathered about the case here, because knowledge is power and he suspects his best chance of remotely endearing himself to Enjolras is by making himself useful.

This is only practical, of course; it’s already become apparent that travelling together is going to be mightily unpleasant if Enjolras doesn’t trust him. But over and above that, he can’t deny that he simply _wants_ Enjolras to like him.

After all, who doesn’t want their god to smile upon them?

He snorts.

The information they have to go on is this: three people in the same neighbourhood have died in the last month, all under the same mysterious circumstances. The victims, none of whom knew each other, were all discovered in their own homes. Neighbours claim to have heard no disturbances, and there was no sign of forced entry. The bodies showed no sign of injury except for one very small puncture-like wound on the throat. Autopsy had found the corpses to have been cleanly drained of blood.

The normal superstitious people of Budapest are whispering about vampires, of course. But that doesn’t _fit._ Vampires aren’t very good at sucking their victims completely dry. And they certainly don’t do it neatly, with the face full of fangs they have.

One of the newspaper articles regarding the deaths had featured a brief interview with the flatmate of one of the victims. Her name is Karina Hegyi, and she claims she was working the late shift at one of the local bars before she came home and found her friend dead on the floor.

The newspaper had been kind enough to provide the name of the bar. Grantaire wonders if they’re open yet.

He goes to find out.

~

He’s sitting on the hotel’s front steps with a new sketchbook propped in his lap when Enjolras steps outside at eleven o’clock sharp. Grantaire sensed him coming a mile off, but obligingly jumps a little when he taps him lightly on the shoulder.

“Good morning. Good evening. Whichever,” he says, clambering to his feet and stowing the sketchbook and his handful of drawing pencils in the bag slung over his shoulder. Enjolras’s eyes follow his movements, curious.

“You’re an artist?” he asks. Grantaire laughs, shakes his head.

“Just a hobby,” he says. “Keeps me out of trouble.”

And that is true; when he’s feeling at his lowest, he can either drink or he can draw, and he always feels slightly less disgusted with himself when he manages to go with the latter option.

They fall into step, with Enjolras navigating the dark streets with a level of confidence that makes Grantaire wonder how much time he spent studying the map instead of sleeping. He doesn’t look so exhausted now, though, so he won’t complain.

“I spoke to victim number two’s flatmate earlier,” he says. Enjolras shoots him a small frown.

“You did?” he asks.

“She speaks some French,” Grantaire says, and he hopes they aren’t here long enough for Enjolras to discover that particular lie.

“What did she say?”

“Mostly what we already know, but there was one thing that didn’t make it to the papers. Sounded too crazy, I expect.”

“That sounds promising,” Enjolras says and, given his line of work, he isn’t even joking.

“It turns out the dead girl’s father also died not too long ago. Nothing suspicious or supernatural about it,” he adds when Enjolras looks at him sharply. “It was a heart attack. His third, apparently. But Karina – that’s the flatmate – says that for a few nights before her death, her friend told her that she’d seen her father. That he came to the apartment.”

“A ghost?” Enjolras’s frown deepens. “It wasn’t a ghost that killed her, though.”

“No,” Grantaire agrees. “Could be that she was just dreaming. But I thought I should mention it.”

“No, of course. It could be important,” Enjolras says with an absent nod. “Thank you.”

 Grantaire fights down a proud smile. Then he feels like an idiot. Or maybe a dog that got a pat on the head for successfully playing ‘fetch’ for the first time.

The plan is for them to break into the home of victim number three – Kujbus Fodor, fifty-three year-old banker – purely because he lived alone and they won’t run the risk of scaring Karina Hegyi or victim number one’s widow. The house is big but the security isn’t too hard to get past. Once they’re inside, Enjolras throws him a small flashlight and the exciting process of looking for supernatural residue – which could be _anything,_ really – begins.

An initial sweep reveals a whole lot of nothing. Enjolras starts hunting for hex bags, but Grantaire doesn’t expect he’ll find any. It doesn’t seem like there’s anything here, except a lingering sense that something nasty paid a visit recently. It’s like a slick of dark oil in the atmosphere, and his Grace recoils from it.

He walks the perimeter of the front room, examining the windows and any other possible points of entry. He feels more than a little humbled when he gets to the front door and sees what they missed on their way in.

“Enjolras,” he says quietly. He directs the beam of his flashlight onto the door-handle, and they both stare. The area around the keyhole is scorched black.

“Something came through the _keyhole?_ ” Enjolras says disbelievingly, crouching down for a closer look. “What could do that?”

Grantaire makes a non-committal noise. Something is nagging at the edge of his mind, though. He knows this; he’s read it somewhere, or it’s built into his programming. He’s sort of designed to smite all things evil, after all. The answer just seems to be buried rather deeply in his mess of a brain.

“...Do you think they’ve cut off the electricity yet?” he asks with his hand hovering over the nearest light-switch. Enjolras looks alarmed.

“Someone could see,” he says. “This house is meant to be empty.”

“Just for a second,” Grantaire says. He flicks the switch, and the lights do indeed come on; good old Mr. Fodor must’ve been paid up until the end of the month.

The walls of the front hall and the living room are painted pale cream – except right now, in the sudden glare of the electric lights, they’re actually more of a dirty yellow colour, patchy and slightly blackened at the corners. Like smoke-damage. Like the keyhole.

Grantaire turns the lights off again quickly, but doesn’t miss the way Enjolras presses his lips into a thin, exasperated line.

“Really?” he says. “The paramedics and police missed _that?_ ”

“The guy was a bachelor,” Grantaire says, trying not to laugh at Enjolras’s obvious disappointment with the Hungarian emergency services. “Maybe they assumed he was a heavy smoker and not very house-proud.”

Enjolras just shakes his head.

They start to prowl around for further clues, when there’s sudden loud knocking at the front door, accompanied by a lot of shouting. To their credit, neither of them cries out in fright. Grantaire can understand what’s being said and so knows that it’s just a well-meaning neighbour who saw the lights and is hollering that he hopes no one is in there looting a dead man’s house. To Enjolras, however, it all must just sound like a slightly terrifying rabble. Grantaire wishes he could reassure him, but he totally doesn’t speak Hungarian.

They hurry out the back door, and make it back to the hotel with no further mishaps.

~

When they are safely ensconced in their room, Enjolras calls Combeferre to fill him in on what they found. Grantaire sits on the edge of his bed and doesn’t pay much attention to what’s being said. He’s thinking, thinking, thinking. He knows what killed these people, and it’s bothering him that he can’t call it to mind.

It’s not until he remembers victim number two’s recently departed father that a few of the pieces fall into place.

He looks up; Enjolras looks like he’s about to hang up.

“Wait,” Grantaire says. “Can Combeferre find out if someone close to victims one and three died recently?”

Enjolras blinks.

“Like that girl’s father, you mean?” he asks.

“Yes. Can he find out?”

“I don’t think there’s anything Combeferre can’t find out,” Enjolras says dryly, bringing the phone back to his ear and passing the request along.

“Do you know what this thing is?” he asks after he ends the call.

“...No,” Grantaire says. He _might –_ he’s almost sure he does – but what he’s thinking of is rare and obscure and not something Grantaire-the-less-than-average-human would be likely to know. As much as he freely admits he’s pitifully pining for the approval of Enjolras-the-above-average-and-bright-shining-human, he thinks it’s safest not to look too competent.

“None of the victims knew each other, or frequented any of the same places, if Combeferre’s information is right,” he goes on when Enjolras just looks at him, waiting for a better answer. “This could be what links them.”

Enjolras nods, looking thoughtful.

“Feuilly always told me to look for the connections,” he says, maybe more to himself than to Grantaire.

“Hm?”

“He taught me a lot about hunting, when I was just getting started.” Enjolras’s eyes are full of far-off admiration.

“Ah, a tough, battle-hardened mentor,” Grantaire says with a grin. He tries to imagine the sort of man that Enjolras would look up to. “I’d like to meet him someday.”

“He’s dead,” Enjolras says. Grantaire’s smile drops right off his face. “Poltergeist in Ukraine. About a year and a half ago.”

 “Are you going to avenge him?” Grantaire asks. Goads, maybe. Enjolras refuses to be baited.

“I’m going to carry on his good work,” he says. He looks awfully content with the idea of doing the very same work that got his teacher killed.

“Of course you are,” Grantaire says. It’s wonderful and it’s horrible and if he could rip out his Grace and give it to Enjolras to protect him, he would.

“Combeferre said he’ll call in the morning with whatever information he finds,” Enjolras says in a rather transparent attempt to change the subject before Grantaire starts lamenting his life choices again.

“Right,” Grantaire says, getting to his feet and shouldering his bag again. “You should get some more sleep, then. The three gallons of coffee you drank on the train must have worn off by now.”

“What about you?” Enjolras asks, which is nice of him and all, but the dancing electric bursts of unease in his soul are enough to tell Grantaire that he’ll keep one eye open all night again if he stays.

“I’m going out.”

“Where?”

“Wherever I can get a drink.” It’s only after he says it that he realises that is his intention. Enjolras’s mouth twists with disapproval, and Grantaire really doesn’t want to hear any criticism of his lifestyle from the boy who’s so eager to throw himself into a monster’s jaws in the name of justice, so he makes his escape quickly.

“You forgot your key,” Enjolras says as he pulls the door open.

“I know,” Grantaire snorts.

~

The hangover the following morning is really quite astounding.

It would be the easiest thing in the world to just snap his fingers and make the headache and churning nausea disappear, but he doesn’t do that. He never does. Penance, and all that.

It’s close to noon when he knocks on their hotel room door, and he figures it doesn’t _matter_ since most of their business is conducted by cover of darkness anyway, but Enjolras still gives him a sort of disappointed-and-despairing-parent look when he sees him. He splashes holy water in his face again before he lets him in.

“Thanks, I needed that,” Grantaire says, throwing his bag down on the bed while the water drips from his hair into his eyes.

“You should really check me, too, after we’ve been apart,” Enjolras says, unapologetic as ever.

“I think I’d know if you were possessed.”

“How?”

“Because a demon wouldn’t try to drown me every time I move.”

“Don’t be childish,” Enjolras says shortly, but Grantaire catches the faint flush of pink in his cheeks and _aha, victory._ “Since 2006, there’s been a dramatic increase in reports of demonic possession and-”

“I know, Enjolras. It’s fine. Holy water dunkings are fine.” Grantaire pinches the bridge of his nose and wishes for twenty boxes of aspirin. He remembers 2006 very well. A Devil’s Gate had been opened. He doubts many hunters know that, but he knew the moment it happened – he _felt_ that rush of evil spewing out into the world like a plume of volcanic ash. North America, if he wasn’t mistaken. For the last few years, there’s always seemed to be something going on over there. He’s happier not knowing exactly what the hell the deal is.

“Did Combeferre call?” he asks.

“Yes,” Enjolras says. His soul, which had gone a dark, sulky orange-pink, brightens. “You were right. Victim number one’s brother died in a car accident two months ago. Victim number three’s mother passed away in hospital the month before. Cancer.”

“Right?” Grantaire isn’t massively surprised but he supposes he should make an effort to appear so.

“So Combeferre did some more digging and he thinks he knows what we’re hunting.”

“Great.” Grantaire drags himself over to the room’s small, rickety table where Enjolras has spread out all his notes. “Is it something ugly?”

“It’s called a lidérc.” Enjolras consults a piece of paper – judging by the hurried, almost illegible scrawl covering it, it’s information he took down from Combeferre over the phone. “There seem to be about a hundred versions of the legend, but one thing they all have in common is the idea that it saps the life from its victims.”

“The blood,” Grantaire says, nodding. Lidérc, right. Sometimes called _ördögszeterõ –_ the form they were hunting, anyway. The names had come back to him late last night, somewhere near the end of his fourth bottle of pálinka.

Speaking of, he hopes Enjolras doesn’t somehow hear the currently emerging news story about the liquor store two miles from their hotel whose entire stock delivery of pálinka mysteriously vanished last night.

“There’s not much concrete information about what it looks like in its natural form, though fire is mentioned a lot. And there are stories of it taking on the appearance of a dead relative or lover of its victim in order to gain access to their home.” Enjolras’s mouth twists in distaste. Grantaire thinks he’s going to quite enjoy killing this thing. “And supposedly it enters houses through the keyhole. Everything...fits.”

“Hmm,” Grantaire says. He tries his best to look engrossed in the notes covering the table, but he can feel Enjolras’s eyes boring holes into his head, and eventually he has to look up and meet his gaze.

“You knew already, didn’t you?” Enjolras says. He looks torn between grudging amusement and total exasperation.

“I wasn’t sure.” Grantaire shrugs, like _hey, no big deal, everyone knows a little bit of Hungarian folklore, right?_

“Do you know anything else, for sure or otherwise?” Enjolras asks. “Like how we’re supposed to find it?”

“They haunt graveyards,” Grantaire says. He immediately worries that he answered too quickly, and has to remind himself that his aim is to seem like a human, not an idiot. “Where’s the map?”

Enjolras digs it out and hands it to him. He flattens it out and finds where either Enjolras or Combeferre has circled the locations of the three victims’ homes. These circles form a rough triangle, and Grantaire bites back a smile, because it’s almost too easy; there’s a cemetery almost slap-bang in the middle of it. He points to it.

“...Tonight,” Enjolras says with a quick nod. Grantaire can tell that he’s battling the urge to run over there right now. He has a sudden mental image of the two of them emerging bloody but triumphant from a crypt and walking straight into the middle of a funeral. Yes, tonight is a good idea.

“Will the blade kill it?” Enjolras asks.

“Yes.” Grantaire wonders when he’ll get around to accepting that it really can kill _anything._

“...Okay,” Enjolras says. “Okay.”

This leaves them with most of the day to themselves. Enjolras still doesn’t seem inclined to do any sightseeing – he sits at the table with a book (the Grimorium Verum, Grantaire notes) and reads it with all the silent intensity of one who is trying to commit every word and symbol to memory. Grantaire chooses not to complain about his disinterest in the cultural landmarks of the surrounding city since he himself still isn’t feeling so fantastic. He’s content to lounge on his bed and sketch while Enjolras crams all that knowledge into his brain and glows.

~

Watching Enjolras kill things is really a lot more captivating than it should be.

They had little trouble finding the lidérc – they’d been searching the cemetery for less than half an hour when it emerged from one of the old tombs, presumably to go and claim another victim. It was kind of hard to miss. Grantaire felt that maybe he should have warned Enjolras that its natural form was, in fact, something vaguely resembling a skeletal, spidery-limbed human being whose insides were on fire, complete with cracked, blackened skin and eerie orange glow and unpleasant burning smell. Most people might have been unprepared for that.

Enjolras, of course, isn’t most people, and his only response to this hideous figure is to raise an eyebrow – as if to say ‘well, that’s different’ – before shooting it in the chest. It shrieks, more in outrage than actual pain, and turns its bulbous ember-eyes on them.

It regards Enjolras for a moment and then it shifts, changes – the fire fades and it becomes a normal man. Grantaire doesn’t recognise him but he isn’t meant to; this show is for Enjolras, not him. He wonders if this is Enjolras’s dead teacher. Though, if the last time someone close to him died was over a year ago, that makes him a rare specimen among hunters.

Enjolras looks utterly unimpressed. He shoots it in the head this time.

“I’m sure you’re having fun with that, but bullets aren’t going to kill it,” Grantaire says.

“I had noticed,” Enjolras says, stowing his gun and taking out the blade. “Still planning on being useful?”

“Certainly.” Grantaire raises his own gun, which Enjolras had exasperatedly shoved into his hands back at the hotel when he’d discovered he was unarmed. “Don’t get yourself set on fire. Please.”

The creature comes at them, and Enjolras goes forward to meet it. It abandons its disguise and shifts back to its monstrosity of a true form – it opens its mouth in a ghastly screech and flames spew from the toothless hole and its long, needle-tipped tongue.

Grantaire aims for its eyes, and his bullets find their mark.

It lashes out blindly with one clawed hand; Enjolras ducks and then drives the blade up and through its chest. No hesitation, not a hint of uncertainty – he moves like they’ve done this a million times, like it’s a dance he’s practiced until he doesn’t even need to think about it anymore. He’s only been hunting for three years, Grantaire remembers. Is that long enough to have developed this kind of lightning-fast instinct? Or was Enjolras just born for this – could humans be designed to fight and kill, in the same way that Grantaire and his kind were-?

Enjolras’s soul practically sings as the creature gives one last roar before it dies. Before Enjolras can even try to pull the blade free, its body turns to ash, which Grantaire thinks is quite courteous of it. Less clean-up for them.

Enjolras stands looking down at the pile of dust with satisfaction. After a moment, Grantaire joins him.

“Do you think it’s dead?” he asks.

Enjolras doesn’t reply, but Grantaire sees the corners of his mouth twitch just a little, and that’s enough for him.

~

The very next night, they’re back at the train station.

“I can’t believe we’re really leaving without seeing any of the sights,” Grantaire complains. He’s seen them all before, but he considers art to be one of the few things that humankind has got right since they came down out of the trees, and he never gets tired of it. “Buda Castle. Memento Park. The Palace of Art.”

“Pointless,” Enjolras reminds him. “Time-consuming.”

“What, you’re not even allowed to enjoy the world you’re working so hard to save?” Grantaire says.

Enjolras blinks, like he’s really never thought of it like that before.

Their train arrives before he has time to wonder about it too much.

They get settled in their compartment, and Enjolras sits on his bunk and calls Combeferre to ask if they should come back to Paris or stop off in Munich, is there anything near there that needs hunting? Grantaire shakes his head and tunes out his voice, leaving him in peace to make arrangements to throw himself into more life-threatening situations.

As the train pulls out of the station and they start to leave Budapest behind, he absent-mindedly starts humming ‘The Blue Danube’ again. After some time, a balled-up piece of paper hits him neatly on the head.

“Be quiet,” Enjolras says. He’s lying down with his back to him. “I’m trying to sleep.”

Grantaire smiles.

“Alright,” he says.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Combeferre. I’m going,” Enjolras says with sharp finality. “If you disapprove, then don’t feel like you need to help me.”
> 
> He hangs up and throws his phone down on his bed. He then stands and glares at it, as if it is personally to blame for whatever just happened.
> 
> “...I found a Starbucks,” Grantaire pipes up after a few moments of painful, ringing silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (whispers) I apologise in advance for the inevitable geographical inaccuracies. I've never been to the south of France but I _really needed to send them to the south of France_ because of reasons?
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr!](http://www.fivie.tumblr.com)

 

 

~

 

Enjolras, as it turns out, speaks French, English, passable German and a smattering of Spanish, which he’s working to improve.

This is one of many things that Grantaire learns about him in the three months following their first awkward journey to Budapest. Other highlights include:

1: Enjolras is not a morning person.

2: Actually, that’s not strictly true; whether or not it’s morning has nothing to do with it. A better assessment of the situation would be that Enjolras is a terrible grouch and muttering-shuffling-zombie when he wakes up, which is often not, in fact, in the morning since he’s also not very good at _going to sleep at a normal time._

3: The only cure for points 1 and 2 is coffee, and Enjolras likes his best with milk but no sugar. He also likes flavoured lattes but seems embarrassed about the fact, as if it’s somehow insolent of him to enjoy something for its taste rather than its _purpose_.

4: While working a job, Enjolras has a tendency to forget to eat. Grantaire finds it more than a little bizarre that he, who doesn’t _need_ to eat or sleep, is suddenly the sole hope for getting this wayward, workaholic human to eat three meals a day and sleep at least five hours out of every twenty-four.

5: Enjolras claims to have no interest whatsoever in art for art’s sake, and ignores all the galleries and fantastically detailed cathedrals and every other place of cultural interest that they pass on their travels. He does, however, seem quite curious about Grantaire’s collection of sketchbooks.

Despite his best efforts, Enjolras still hasn’t managed to pry any information from Grantaire about his background, though he’s certainly learned plenty about his habits. He frowns when Grantaire disappears for the night to drink and stumbles back the next day with a bottle still swinging from his hand, but he doesn’t try to stop him. Grantaire almost wishes he would. He wonders if he’d be able to stop, if Enjolras asked it of him.

He also learns that Grantaire speaks French, English, Russian and ‘a little bit of Dutch’, because that is what Grantaire tells him. In hindsight, he wishes he’d thrown a little Romanian into the mix too. It feels like they have to go there every other week because _yet another_ vampire has decided they are the new Count Dracula and taken up residence in one ruined castle or another.

They hunt a lot of things in those first few months, because Enjolras pesters Combeferre for every possible case he’s got wind of. In addition to vampires, werewolves and lidérc, Enjolras now knows for certain that Grantaire’s blade will kill zombies, rawheads and ghouls – though the ghoul incident is one that neither of them likes to think about too much.

(Long story short: the thing had just finished gorging itself and was lying in its crypt like an overstuffed maggot, and stabbing it turned out to be sort of like popping a balloon. Full of rotting flesh.)

Grantaire likes to think that he’s a good sport about these hunts. He lets Enjolras take the lead, and if he figures out what they’re hunting first, he only drops as many hints as it takes for Enjolras to solve it on his own. (Because one day Enjolras will kill him and so Grantaire has to help him learn as much as possible before that happens.) He even lets himself take a few hits when things get especially exciting, and then lets the battle-wounds heal the slow, human way. There’s a certain camaraderie that comes with patching themselves up together after a messy hunt.

They have one incident where they find themselves in serious conflict with each other: they are investigating a haunting in Smolensk, and the ghosts doing the haunting turn out to be the spirits of two young children. No one has been badly hurt or killed yet, and Grantaire sees a couple of kids who were too scared to go with a Reaper rather than dangerous vengeful spirits. He wants to try talking to them, to see if they’ll move on by themselves. Enjolras looks at him like he just suggested they cycle a tandem back to Paris instead of taking the train. Salting and burning the bones would be a lot more efficient, he says.

Efficient, yes, Grantaire agrees. Pleasant for the spirits? Not so much.

But Enjolras doesn’t care about that, because there are people to protect and many more monsters out there, and this is just another job that they need to get done as quickly as possible.

Grantaire stares at him, tight-lipped, and he wants to tell him _‘I’m not even human and I think I’m better at this empathy thing than you are.’_

It’s the first time that he truly sees just how consumed by _the cause_ Enjolras is. He has no concept of individual cases or exceptions to rules. No one and nothing is above his system. There are human beings and there are creatures-to-be-killed, and there is nothing in between.

That night, when he’s sure Enjolras is sleeping, he flies to the construction site where the supernatural activity is supposedly occurring. They’re building a mini-supermarket, but there used to be an apartment building here, before it burned down. Fatalities: two. Children.

They hide from him at first. But they’re dead, and he doesn’t need to worry about burning out their eyes, so he lets his Grace shine through his human skin just a little; lets the shadows of his wings loom large over his shoulders. They come running to him, then, smiling and with eyes shining. They’ve been waiting for this, he realises with a sick lurch in his stomach. Their parents told them that when you die, angels will look after you. Of course they wouldn’t go with their Reaper, who was probably some shady-looking guy in a dark suit.

He sits with them and tells them stories of what Heaven is like – because maybe the system is broken and maybe the angels are too, but the individual Heavens of human souls remain untouched, and for that he is thankful. As they stare up at him, rapt and utterly trusting, it reminds him of a time long ago – _so_ long ago – when mercy was still the name of the game and he understood his place in the universe. He feels a little nostalgic, remembering who he once was. He supposes that, given his origins, it’s not _so_ surprising that he tends more towards compassion for lost souls than Enjolras.

The children go into the light, still smiling. Grantaire goes back to the hotel.

The next day, Enjolras burns their bones. Grantaire says nothing but takes quiet satisfaction in the knowledge that the action is a _total waste of his precious time._

They don’t speak for a few days after that.

Grantaire gets over it first, by reminding himself that Enjolras is human, and that humans are inherently imperfect, and he shouldn’t hold that against him.

~

Things go smoothly enough for a while. And then, of course, they don’t.

Grantaire is on his way back to their hotel room, bearing morning coffee and breakfast doughnuts, when he first becomes aware that there is a problem.

They’re in Cologne (ah yes, another city, another cathedral for Enjolras to take no notice of) and, having taken care of the local werewolf problem, they are currently awaiting new orders from the Musain. Grantaire has been schooling himself not to listen in on every conversation Enjolras has, because even he figures that’s unnecessary, invasive and more than a little creepy, but he does tend to keep one ear sort of lazily turned in Enjolras’s direction just in case of trouble. As a result, as he climbs the stairs to their room, he can’t help but overhear what sounds like Enjolras having an argument with Combeferre.

Enjolras and Combeferre, arguing.

The concept is bizarre enough to make him stop dead in his tracks. A man behind him nearly walks into his back and swears at him at great length in German before going on his way. Grantaire ignores him.

Things-he’s-learned-about-Enjolras, number 6: Enjolras and Combeferre do not argue. They are colleagues with a common aim in mind and, over and above that, they are friends. Grantaire had been delighted to realise this; he knows the loneliness of this life can make people hard and cold. He likes that Enjolras has a friend, and especially one like Combeferre, who does not generally engage in fieldwork and is therefore much less likely to die horribly any time soon.

And yet, as he manages to get himself moving again, it’s undeniable; that’s Enjolras’s voice coming from above, and he’s close to shouting.

Grantaire quickly tunes the sound out as best he can, so that he at least can’t hear exactly what’s being said. Because, again, invasive and creepy. But by the time he reaches their door and starts fumbling for his key-card (because, yes, they’ve reached that stage, he no longer needs to lock himself out of their room to give Enjolras peace of mind), he and probably the rest of the guests in the corridor can’t help but hear every word.

“...I mean, I’m in _Germany,_ I can be there by tonight! Don’t even try to tell me you’ve got anyone else closer who- what? Of course I know that. I _know!”_

Grantaire comes slinking inside at this point. Enjolras notices him but hardly acknowledges him. The red-black-acid-yellow turbulence of his soul almost seems to be coating the walls of the room.

“Combeferre. I’m going,” he says with sharp finality. “If you disapprove, then don’t feel like you need to help me.”

He hangs up and throws his phone down on his bed. He then stands and glares at it, as if it is personally to blame for whatever just happened.

“...I found a Starbucks,” Grantaire pipes up after a few moments of painful, ringing silence. He approaches Enjolras as one might approach a bear that’s just stumbled out of hibernation, and keeps his distance carefully even as he leans over and sets the vanilla latte on the bedside table.

(7: When there’s something wrong, Enjolras won’t tell you about it until he decides you need to know. Asking questions is not advised.)

Enjolras ignores the coffee, which is a bad sign. He strides over to the table, where he’s got his laptop set up. He’s been fighting to get a decent wi-fi signal since last night. Grantaire supposes they both better hope he succeeds, since he just threw a tantrum at their guide.

 “Do you have any idea how over-priced this stuff is?” Grantaire says, following him with the latte in tow. “Maybe you don’t, you never make the coffee run. Let me tell you: you’d think it was made with gold-plated beans. So drink up, grumpy.”

The look Enjolras sends him might have struck a lesser man dead on the spot. He’s scariest when he doesn’t even scowl. It’s a perfectly neutral expression, but it’s all in the eyes. Chilling.

Grantaire just laughs at him.

“Don’t bite the hand that feeds you breakfast,” he says, placing the box of still-warm doughnuts down on the table too. Enjolras wrinkles his nose.

“Can’t you ever pick something with an iota of nutritional value?” he says.

“Sorry, you’re right,” Grantaire says, flopping into a chair and grabbing his sketchbook. “With the complete lack of physical exertion in your life, you really need to watch your figure.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Oh, eat your doughnuts.” Grantaire flaps a hand at him. “I promise to get you a nice, exciting granola bar tomorrow.”

He doesn’t speak again until he’s seen Enjolras finish his coffee and consume at least one full doughnut. Only then does he feel it might be safe to do so.

“Do we have a new case?” he asks.

“Yes,” Enjolras replies. He sounds calmer, and his soul looks somewhat soothed. The magic healing power of caffeine and vanilla-flavoured syrup, Grantaire supposes. “Possible ghost activity at a university.”

“Where?”

“Lyon.”

“Ah, back to our own fair France.” Grantaire has decided to claim France for his surrogate-homeland. He likes it there.

“Yes,” Enjolras says again. He looks oddly hesitant, and for a minute Grantaire thinks he’s going to tell him what it is about this job in Lyon that has him and Combeferre at each other’s throats, but in the end he only says, “Thanks for getting breakfast.”

“Can’t have you fighting evil on an empty stomach,” Grantaire says with a faint smile.

~

Cologne to Lyon is a relatively short journey by their standards – Grantaire thinks this might actually be the first time they’ve had two consecutive cases in neighbouring countries – but still, naturally, involves several hours on trains. Daytime travel means no sleeper compartment, which means travelling in a carriage full of normal people, which means strictly no discussion of the case while on board. As a result, the ride is mostly silent. Grantaire desperately wants to ask Enjolras all sorts of questions – _what did you do before you started hunting? What did you want to do? What did you enjoy before this became your entire life? Did you have a favourite author, did you play an instrument, was there someone you were in love with?_ He wants to know an Enjolras who is more than just a killer of monsters; a boy who once, doubtless, had a brighter and very different future ahead of him. But he can’t ask any of those things, because Enjolras will only counter with his own questions, and he has no answers to give him.

It wouldn’t be the hardest thing in the world to create a fictitious past for himself, but keeping secrets somehow feels slightly less treacherous than telling outright lies.

So they are quiet, and Enjolras taps away at his laptop, and Grantaire sketches absently. He’s drawing a woman sitting opposite them. She’s middle-aged and greying and looks exhausted – is dozing with her head leaning against the window, in fact – but, with the sunlight catching her eyelashes and cheekbones just so, she appears radiant. Grantaire wonders if he’s the only one who thinks so. Humans are so strange about ageing. He, with his eternally unchanging appearance, considers the marks of old age to be achievements people should be proud of.

He doesn’t expect Enjolras will ever wear those particular marks.

“What are you drawing?” Enjolras asks. He says it off-handily, but it isn’t the first time he’s asked. Grantaire gives his usual answer.

“Nothing.” He closes the sketchbook. Enjolras’s eyes don’t shift from his laptop screen once, but he frowns.

“You’re so secretive about that thing,” he says.

(8: Enjolras does not like secrets.)

“You don’t like art,” Grantaire reminds him. “You wouldn’t appreciate it.”

He almost laughs out loud at the indignant flash of dark red that remark inspires in Enjolras’s soul.

“I _might_ ,” Enjolras mutters.

“Admit it, you’re just worried that almost every page is a drawing I did of you while you were sleeping,” Grantaire says with a grin.

“Oh, forget it,” Enjolras grumbles, and Grantaire feels bad, because maybe he really is interested, or maybe this is him trying to play nice and make conversation.

“It’s not really all that interesting,” he says, sliding the sketchbook onto the keyboard of Enjolras’s laptop. He blinks in surprise before turning it carefully, almost reverently, to the first page. Grantaire doesn’t think he handles it like someone who thinks art is a massive waste of time.

In truth, there are no drawings of Enjolras in there, mainly because drawing Enjolras with graphite pencil would be sort of like painting a sunset with a pallet consisting only of black, white and grey. To Grantaire, the golden soul that lured him to the slums of Paris like a hapless insect will forever be as much a part of Enjolras as his physical self. If they ever set up camp somewhere long enough for him to get paint, _then_ Enjolras might unexpectedly find his likeness in his work.

He watches Enjolras’s face as he flips through the different sketches. Though he isn’t looking for approval, he feels an unexpected pulse of warmth in his chest when one page in particular earns a smile.

He isn’t self-conscious about his art; he simply has a rather strange relationship with it. Because how can he ever know for sure if his talent comes from himself, or is some kind of residual muscle-memory left behind in this body by its original inhabitant? He doesn’t know if his vessel was an artistic man. But he also doesn’t know if angels actually have the capacity for creativity. They weren’t intended to ever have _hobbies,_ after all.

He finds drawing to be soothing; it has always been a balm for him, ever since he exiled himself here. It allows him to _exist_ in a particular moment; to focus on one thing alone instead of everything at once. But he does not know if his work truly belongs to him, or if it is just one more thing he has stolen. And for that reason, he tends to hide it away.

Enjolras, as ever, seems to be the exception to his rule.

“Do you never draw?” Grantaire asks him. “Or did you, before?”

“No. I was always awful at it. My teachers at school were happy to let me do my maths homework in art class rather than waste their paper.” Enjolras closes the sketchbook almost reluctantly and hands it back. “You’re good, though.”

“I’ll paint your portrait one day,” Grantaire says. “Ten feet tall. Just you in your red coat, standing on top of a mountain, with a blade in one hand and a vampire’s severed head in the other. I think I could make it tasteful.”

“I think you’re an idiot.”

“I think you’re probably right.”

“I expect you were considerably more popular with your art teachers than I ever was, though?” And there it is – the _question._ Grantaire supposes it’s his own fault; he did start it. Enjolras’s tone is light and casual again, but Grantaire can practically feel him watching him out of the corner of his eye.

“...No,” he says finally. “It’s a hobby I only picked up recently. When I was younger, I don’t think there was a single person in my life that would have approved of me producing any sort of art.”

This isn’t technically a lie. Is it just an evasion, then? Or a lie by implication? Oh, how the lines do blur.

“Oh.” Enjolras looks unsure exactly how to respond to that that. “That’s a shame.”

There are no further attempts at conversation.

~

Grantaire begins to feel an unpleasant, dawning realisation of what the problem is almost as soon as they arrive in Lyon.

Enjolras doesn’t have a map, and he definitely hasn’t consulted Combeferre for directions, and yet he leads them through the streets with suspiciously practiced ease. He hasn’t phoned ahead to book a room anywhere, he just ‘knows a place that’ll have vacancies’. He glances around as they walk, affording his surroundings a level of attention that he normally reserves only for sites of recent brutal murders.

As far as Grantaire is aware, Lyon does not have some kind of recurring ghost problem that would have caused Enjolras to hunt here time and time again, resulting in this kind of familiarity.

He has a bad feeling. But he doesn’t ask.

When they are settled in yet another cheap-but-relatively-cheerful hotel room, they finally fall to talking about the case.

“There haven’t been any attacks so far,” Enjolras says. “Just sightings.”

“Sightings? Of what?”

“People are calling it a ghost, but that could be wrong. Normal people seem to blame anything they don’t understand on ghosts.”

“Normal people,” Grantaire repeats with a small smile.

“...Shut up,” Enjolras says after a moment. “You know what I mean.”

“So how many sightings have there been?”

“Two, that we know of.”

“Two?” Grantaire raises an eyebrow. “That’s not much to go on. That could easily be nothing. It’s a university full of bored students. Ghost stories liven up any old building.”

“We can _check_ , can’t we?” Enjolras shoots him a frosty look. “Or would you rather we wait until someone’s dead?”

Grantaire puts his hands up in surrender.

 What he wouldn’t give to know exactly what it is that’s got Enjolras so wound up. It might make it easier to avoid tripwires like this in their conversations.

“EMF sweep, then?” he asks. “Where on campus did people see this ‘ghost’?”

“Two different places,” Enjolras says. “Two different buildings, in fact.”

Grantaire doesn’t bother pointing out that ghosts are _generally_ tied to one particular place, because Enjolras knows that, and if he wants to investigate anyway, then Grantaire isn’t going to argue.

“The first was in one of the girls’ bathrooms-” Enjolras starts, and Grantaire’s squawks of protest – because a haunted bathroom, _really?_ Wasn’t that one getting kind of old? – are pre-emptively cut off when his phone starts ringing. They both freeze, because they both know it’ll be Combeferre, because Combeferre is pretty much the only person on the planet who has Enjolras’s number.

“...Oh, answer it,” Grantaire says after about four rings. “Be a man.”

Enjolras sets the phone on the table as if he expects it to explode and puts it on speakerphone. This is normally how they do things, now, since it means Combeferre can pass along information to both of them at once.

“Yes?” Enjolras says in such a ridiculously stiff and formal voice that Grantaire has to furiously bite the inside of his own cheek to keep from laughing.

“I assume you’re in Lyon?” Combeferre says. He just sounds annoyed, but resigned. That’s a good idea, Grantaire thinks: resignation. Do not try to fight Hurricane Enjolras. It’s just not worth it.

“Of course.”

“Right. If you’re going to insist upon taking this case, I have a contact in the city for you.”

“A contact? Who?”

“Her name is Éponine Thénardier. She’s our eyes and ears in Lyon, and the one who brought this case to my attention. She’ll be able to give you more information. She’ll hear if there are more sightings or attacks, too.”

“Where can we find her?” Enjolras doesn’t look overly thrilled by the prospect of working with a third party. (9: Enjolras, by nature, is not quick to trust new people. It took Grantaire a month or two to be promoted from ‘possible sociopath’ to ‘probable ally’, after all.) He won’t turn down inside information, though. He’s distrusting but pragmatic.

“She works in a bar on Rue des Casernes. Very popular with students. Mostly law students.” Combeferre’s voice has a warning edge to it that Grantaire can’t quite make head or tail of.

“Well, it _is_ right next to Jean Moulin’s Law building,” Enjolras replies through closed teeth and _oh dear, how does he know that?_

The answer is obvious, of course, but Grantaire does hate to assume.

“She’ll be there tonight if you aren’t too tired after the journey.”

“We’re fine,” Enjolras says shortly. He only casts Grantaire a questioning look after making this statement, but he supposes that’s better than not asking at all. He just nods. “We’ll go tonight.”

“I’ll call ahead to let her know,” Combeferre says. He pauses a moment, and then adds, “Be careful.”

He tells them that before every job, of course, and it’s sound advice. It just sounds like he’s talking about something other than not getting killed this time.

~

The bar is called The ABC, and it’s a far cry from the ‘rustic aesthetic’ of the Musain. This place is all chrome furniture and soft indie music and neon backlighting behind the bar. It’s very obviously aimed at the student crowd, with brightly-coloured laminated signs advertising cheap vodka mixes and, apparently, two cocktail jugs for the price of one on Wednesday nights.

Grantaire doesn’t think he’s ever seen Enjolras so uncomfortable. And he’s seen Enjolras standing in a crypt covered from head to toe with a ghoul’s innards.

“Do you want a beer or something?” Grantaire asks him tentatively, because maybe just a _little_ bit of alcohol would be enough to stop Enjolras from vibrating out of his own skin.

“We’re not here to drink,” Enjolras snaps back at him.

“It’s a _bar._ We’re going to look pretty strange if we don’t drink.”

Enjolras ignores him and marches up to the bar. There are a few people serving there but only one girl, and for the love of all that is good, Grantaire hopes that’s Éponine, because any normal civilian would probably be frightened by the approach of such a handsome and yet murderous-looking young man. He follows quickly, in case he needs to intervene.

Luckily, this is indeed Éponine. She’s a very pretty girl – brown hair, brown eyes, olive skin – and also gives the impression that if anyone was to start any trouble in this place, she’d be the one dealing out black eyes and broken noses and sending them on their way. Grantaire thinks he’s going to like her.

“You’re Enjolras?” she says. He nods and offers her his hand to shake, as if this is a business meeting.

“And I’m Enjolras’s number one fan,” Grantaire says, coming up behind him and waving. Her lips quirk slightly.

“Grantaire, yeah?” she says. “Combeferre told me.”

He gives her a little bow. Enjolras looks at him as if to say that he’s finding his antics quite mortifying.

“We can talk in private out back,” Éponine says, throwing down the cloth she was using to mop up the assorted puddles on the bar. She calls to one of the boys on duty that she’s taking her break now, and then gestures for Enjolras and Grantaire to follow her. She leads them out the back door, and then immediately sprays them both with what Grantaire can only assume is holy water. Angelic senses or not, he has no idea where she just produced that water pistol from. He’s impressed. He’s also highly amused by Enjolras’s startled spluttering.

“I could say something about karma, but I won’t,” Grantaire says with a contented smile, drying himself off with his sleeve.

“Alright,” Éponine says, stowing the water gun and producing a packet of cigarettes. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything you’ve heard,” Enjolras replies.

“There’s not much,” she says with a shrug, sitting down on the back steps and lighting up. “Two girls at the university are claiming they saw a ghost, one in the bathroom in the library, the other in a corridor in the Languages department. The two girls don’t know each other but their stories are similar. They both say they saw a dead woman. I haven’t spoken to either of them personally, but these stories spread like wildfire, especially when there are essays due and people want some excitement in their day.” She pauses to blow out a cloud of smoke, peering up at the two of them shrewdly. “To be honest, I didn’t think Combeferre would send anyone down here unless there was at least one more reported sighting. Y’know, two could be a coincidence, three’s a pattern, all that.”

“Hunting something down before anyone gets killed isn’t an opportunity that arises very often,” Enjolras says, frowning.

“What I don’t understand is why Combeferre would need to send anyone when there’s a local hunter already here,” Grantaire says, because his general impression of Éponine is that she is more than capable of handling anything that comes her way, supernatural or otherwise, and that she doesn’t seem the type to be daunted by mere rumours of a ghost.

Éponine snorts.

“I’m no hunter,” she says, looking amused by the very idea. “If you two want to get yourselves killed for people you don’t even know, then be my guest. Me, I’ve got a brother to watch out for. If a case is a straight-forward salt and burn then, sure, ‘Ponine can do that for you. Apart from that, no thanks.”

There’s a pause, and then Grantaire sits down next to her on the stairs.

“Explain,” he says with a wide smile. “Please.”

“Explain?” she repeats. Grantaire can practically feel Enjolras rolling his eyes.

“He likes to hear people’s stories,” Enjolras says. He sounds apologetic, like a stressed parent with an errant child.

“This one sounds _good_ ,” Grantaire says. “Enjolras’s was interesting but it had a very dull ending that I’ve heard about a million times before.”

Éponine tilts her head back and laughs. Enjolras looks slightly affronted.

“My story wouldn’t make a very good movie,” she says, stubbing out her cigarette on the concrete step. “I found out about this whole ‘world’ when my parents got killed. Vengeful spirit.”

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras says. She snorts again.

“Don’t be. I wasn’t too heartbroken over it.” Grantaire thinks that maybe she’s lying about that, but there is certainly venom in her voice. “They were not loving parents. They were not good people. I’m almost sure that the ghost that killed them was the spirit of someone whose death they caused in the first place.”

“Oh,” Enjolras and Grantaire say in the same moment, because there isn’t much else you can say to that.

“A hunter came along and sorted out the ghost problem. Just so happened that he was connected to the Musain. He dropped me and my brother off there, because we had no money and no one could figure out exactly what to do with us.”

“And?”

“They asked me if I wanted to hunt. I told them they could go fuck themselves.” She smiles sweetly. “But your friend, Combeferre. He has this grand idea of having someone in every city who can keep their eyes open for supernatural activity. Watchers, he likes to call us.”

And ah, yes, that sounds like Combeferre. Enjolras is going to try and eradicate evil all by himself until he burns himself out; Combeferre is working to create a system that will minimise the damage that evil can do and make the good guys’ response to it that much quicker. He and Enjolras are like a modern-day Tortoise and Hare.

“Why get involved at all?” Grantaire asks.

“Because it was a good offer,” she says simply. “I mean. You know the guys at the Musain are running every money-laundering scheme in the book to keep guys like you on the road, right? The deal was that if I agreed to keep an eye on things down here, the Musain would get me everything I needed to live here. Apartment, fake credit card, enough fake references to get me the job at the bar. I won’t complain. Fair deal.”

Grantaire sighs happily.

“That was a much better story than yours,” he informs Enjolras.

“I’m so glad you liked it,” Enjolras says dryly. “Is there anything else we should know about the case?”

“Not that I know. There might not even be a case,” Éponine says. “I’ve got the names of the two girls who saw the thing. I’ll try and talk to them for you tomorrow.”

“I could do that,” Enjolras says with a puzzled frown. Éponine gets to her feet and dusts herself off.

“Don’t get me wrong. You’re very cute.” She pats Enjolras’s cheek, and the fact that she does so and _gets away with it_ is enough to permanently endear her to Grantaire. “But lots of college girls aren’t comfortable with talking to strange men, no matter how pretty they are.”

“Don’t be sad, Enjolras,” Grantaire says as they head back inside. “We can check for EMF tomorrow, if we can sneak into the buildings.”

Enjolras just grumbles something under his breath.

“Do you guys want a drink before you go?” Éponine asks them. “First one’s always on the house for hunters who could, y’know, die tomorrow.”

“Yes,” Grantaire says at the exact same moment that Enjolras says, “No, thank you.”

“Oh, come on, you can have one drink and still be a fine, upstanding citizen,” Grantaire says.

“I’ll see you back at the hotel,” Enjolras grinds out. He turns on his heel to go.

“Why are you so terrified of bars?” Grantaire asks with equal measures of amusement and exasperation. “I mean, the Musain’s a bar. You don’t clam up there.”

“It’s not the fact that it’s a _bar_ that’s the problem, it’s...” But Enjolras doesn’t finish that thought; he catches himself and stops abruptly, as if realising he almost gave away some vital state secret.

“I need to go,” he says instead.

He doesn’t get far, though. In fact, he maybe only gets about ten steps before there’s a crash of breaking glass, and a shout so loud that, for just a moment, everyone in the building stops to look.

_“Enjolras!”_

The sudden noise startles Grantaire so badly that his first instinct is to _find the source of the danger and eliminate it_ but when it sinks in that someone in this student bar just shrieked Enjolras’s name, that’s enough to make him pause in his preparation for smiting.

He looks around, and it’s fairly obvious who did the shouting. There’s a young man with a riot of dark hair and a round face, and he’s standing with the potentially lethal remains of the two glasses he just dropped scattered around his feet. He’s staring at Enjolras with his mouth hanging open.

Enjolras, for his part, has frozen. His soul is flashing warning-yellow with panic. When he turns, slowly, Grantaire sees that his face has gone the colour of milk.

For an impossibly long moment, nothing happens. The two of them just stand and stare at each other, while Grantaire and Éponine wait tensely by the bar to see if this situation is going to descend into violence.

It doesn’t.

The boy steps over the broken glass and makes his way over to where Enjolras is still standing looking shell-shocked. When he reaches him, the boy stares a minute longer, and then he _grins._

“Enjolras,” he says again, like it’s the only word he knows, or the only one his brain is capable of providing his mouth with at this point in time.

Enjolras’s lips move a little, but he still says nothing, and that’s just not like him at all. Grantaire never thought he’d see him lost for words.

The boy starts laughing, then, and he suddenly pulls Enjolras into a back-breaking hug, still saying his name over and over, like a chant or a prayer. Grantaire only has a second or two to be alarmed by this new development, before something even more unexpected occurs: _Enjolras hugs him back._

“...I think I’ll have that drink now, Éponine,” Grantaire says, leaning back against the bar while Enjolras and this laughing stranger cling to each other. “It’s starting to look like I’m going to need it.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What a heart-warming scene,” Éponine says dryly. She sends one of the guys from the bar to clean up the mess of broken glass. “This is more drama than we usually get in here in a month. I don’t suppose you know what the hell’s going on?”
> 
> “Can’t say I do,” Grantaire says. “But I feel like I might have to step in and intervene soon.”
> 
> He’s not wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the wait! I was spirited away on a two-week family holiday and I just sort of assumed there would be internet and yeah there was no internet. But I survived and I'm back.
> 
> The good news is that Chapter 5 is almost finished too because two weeks without internet is painful but means fewer distractions for writing.
> 
> The bad news (?) is that Chapter 5 actually should have been part of this chapter but apparently I'm channelling Victor Hugo and his inability to keep anything brief and to the point and so this arc is dragging on a bit.
> 
> They won't spend the whole rest of the story in Lyon, I promise.
> 
> Feel free to come say hi on [tumblr!](http://www.fivie.tumblr.com)

 

 

~

 

Grantaire’s policy of not eavesdropping on Enjolras’s private conversations is on temporary hiatus, because _hell_ if he isn’t going to hear every single word of this exchange.

The boy has by now released Enjolras from his death-grip but is gripping him by the shoulders instead, as if afraid he’ll vanish into thin air if he doesn’t hold onto him. He’s still laughing but Grantaire thinks he might be halfway to crying, too.

“Oh, God. Oh wow. I thought I was seeing a ghost just now,” he’s saying. “God, Enjolras, is it really you? Has all the studying finally broken my brain? Am I _dreaming?_ ”

“It’s me.” Enjolras finds his voice at last, though it’s a weak and croaky shadow of its usual self. He looks like he isn’t sure whether to smile or throw up. “Hello, Courfeyrac.”

 _Oh, we have a name,_ Grantaire thinks. _That’s something, at least. Not much, but something._

“ _Hello?_ ” Courfeyrac repeats in a strained, high-pitched voice. “‘Hello’, he says! Enjolras. Enjolras. It’s been, like. Three years. I thought you _died._ ”

“Oh. Um.”

“What _happened?_ You just disappeared! We were one step away from calling your parents when they called _us_ to ask if we had a clue where you were! Oh, God. I can’t believe this. I’m still ninety percent sure I’m hallucinating.”

“I’m here,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire has never heard him sound so gentle. “I shouldn’t be, but I’m here.”

“Oh my _God,_ Enjolras.” And Courfeyrac is hugging him again, and Grantaire can practically hear the air being forced from Enjolras’s lungs but he just stands there and takes it. “This is. This is amazing. You’re alive! You’re _alright_. I think I’m crying. Why am I doing that?”

“I don’t know,” Enjolras laugh-wheezes. Courfeyrac lets him go and surveys him.

“You’re crying a little too,” he observes.

“No, I’m not,” Enjolras says, hastily scrubbing at his eyes.

“What a heart-warming scene,” Éponine says dryly. She sends one of the guys from the bar to clean up the mess of broken glass. “This is more drama than we usually get in here in a month. I don’t suppose you know what the hell’s going on?”

“Can’t say I do,” Grantaire says. “But I feel like I might have to step in and intervene soon.”

He’s not wrong.

“But where have you _been?_ ” Courfeyrac is asking. “Why did you leave? I mean, _did_ you just leave? Did something happen? Why did you never call?Or email, or- I mean. Just. Where have you been?”

Grantaire has seen Enjolras go up against all manner of monsters without so much as flinching in fear, but the look of panic on his face now is so intense that he has to try very hard not to find it hilarious. He looks like a deer caught in the headlights of a UFO. And his voice seems to have abandoned him again, which is just poor timing. How can it be that Enjolras, who can convince a police officer that he is an Interpol agent without actually producing any documentation to prove the fact, suddenly can’t think of a lie?

Grantaire grabs his tumbler of whisky, pushes himself off the bar, and goes valiantly to the rescue.

“Everything alright, Enjolras?” he asks companionably, slotting himself in next to him and clapping him on the shoulder. The touch is enough to jolt Enjolras from his daze, at least; he turns his head and looks at him oddly, as if wondering exactly when he thinks the two of them reached the stage where impromptu physical contact is permitted.

Courfeyrac frowns a little, and looks like he might be trying to catch Enjolras’s eye to silently ask _is this guy the problem, is this why you disappeared for three years, **do I need to scream for the cops**?_

“Hello,” Grantaire says with his best smile, holding out a hand to shake. “Enjolras seems to have forgotten his manners. I’m Grantaire.”

“Courfeyrac.” His grip is firm, but Grantaire can feel his hand trembling just a tiny bit.

“Oh, _this_ is Courfeyrac?” Grantaire somehow forces himself to smile even wider. “It’s great to meet you. Enjolras has told me all about you, of course.”

Enjolras is looking at him like he fears he’s gone completely mad now, which is not helpful at all, but fortunately Courfeyrac doesn’t seem to notice. And as Grantaire had hoped, that little lie makes him relax just a little.

“All good, I hope,” he says with the faintest trace of a smile.

“Of course!” Grantaire doesn’t think it would _kill_ Enjolras to pitch in and help him out here, but he doesn’t seem terribly inclined to do so. “And wow, this meeting must be fate. I know you said you thought we might find him here, Enjolras, but on our very first try? What are the odds?”

“You were looking for me?” Courfeyrac says, turning back to Enjolras, who manages a nod in between casting frantic, questioning looks in Grantaire’s direction.

“I’m sure he already told you that he’s not meant to be here,” Grantaire goes on. “But he just couldn’t stay away any longer. I mean, it’s been, what, three years? That’s a long time to not know how your friends are doing.”

He doesn’t think it’s too much of a stretch to guess that Enjolras and Courfeyrac are – or were – friends. He also doesn’t think it’s too insane to assume that Courfeyrac isn’t the only friend Enjolras has in Lyon. And if this situation turns out to be exactly what he thinks it is, he and Enjolras are going to have _words_ later.

“It is a long time.” Enjolras speaks up at last and _hooray, better late than never,_ Grantaire supposes. “I just- I needed to make sure you were alright. You and the others.”

Courfeyrac smiles at him but it’s a _pained_ smile, and Grantaire silently hopes that it’s sending daggers of guilt straight into Enjolras’s heart.

“But why aren’t you meant to be here, Enjolras?” he asks. “I don’t understand. Did you _have_ to go away?”

“Yes,” Enjolras replies without hesitation, but then he just stops. Did he not come up with a suitable lie in preparation for a situation like this one, or can he just not bring himself to lie to a face that’s clearly so happy to see him? Grantaire doesn’t pretend to know. All he knows is that the protection of Enjolras’s top-secret monster-hunting alter-ego seems to lie squarely with _him._

He leans in towards Courfeyrac, who looks at him curiously. Grantaire raises his eyebrows meaningfully at him.

“Witness protection,” he says in a confidential whisper.

He isn’t even touching Enjolras anymore, but he still feels him stiffen from head to toe after those two words leave his mouth.

 _If you wanted a better cover-story, you had plenty of opportunity to spit one out,_ Grantaire thinks wryly.

Courfeyrac’s eyes go comically wide.

“No way,” he breathes.

Grantaire nods sombrely.

“What _happened?_ ”

“Classified,” Grantaire says with a mournful shake of his head.

“Enjolras, are you _okay?_ ”

“I- yes. I’m...coping.” Enjolras sounds like he’s speaking through gritted teeth.

“Were you even allowed to stay in France? Where did they put you?”

Grantaire just shakes his head again. Courfeyrac puts his hands up apologetically.

“Oh my God, that’s...I mean, it’s terrible, but it’s _cool_ ,” he says. “Is it like in the movies?”

“Exactly like in the movies,” Enjolras says in a strained monotone that Courfeyrac would surely have noticed if he wasn’t trying to get his head around the idea that his friend had been spirited away by government agents.

“So, you understand, it’s of the utmost importance that you don’t tell anyone you saw us here,” Grantaire adds after taking a sip of his whisky for strength _._ “This is a very secret, very illicit road-trip. You wouldn’t believe the trouble he’d get in if _they_ found out.”

He has no idea who ‘they’ might be, but Courfeyrac just nods furiously.

“Of course, yes, I get it,” he says, and then pauses. “But, Enjolras, can I at least tell the others that you’re not _dead?_ ”

“Um. No, that’s...I mean, it’d be better if you...” Enjolras trails off rather pathetically and clears his throat. “It’s best if you don’t mention seeing me.”

Courfeyrac’s face falls but he nods reluctantly.

“...How are they?” Enjolras asks softly. He’s very pointedly not looking at Grantaire, as if he finds it unspeakably humiliating to be heard asking such a _human_ question by someone who knows him as a hunter.

“Yeah, fine, everyone’s fine!” Courfeyrac assures him with a shaky smile. “Joly’s still dying of ten different diseases every week. Bossuet’s still a disaster-a-day waiting to happen. And Marius is in love, if you can believe it.”

Enjolras bows his head and lets out a quiet laugh. It’s a sad sound. Grantaire knows what it means: Enjolras thought he’d buried these people; these memories. But now he’s here and Courfeyrac is right in front of him and suddenly it feels like he’s hardly been gone. All his friends’ faces and personalities and little peculiarities are flooding back to him with painful clarity, and he’s going to have to start the process of burying them all over again.

Grantaire knows, because he understands. He’s been homesick often enough.

“You two should catch up,” he says, pulling away from Enjolras’s side. “As we’ve established, three years is a long time.”

“No,” Enjolras says immediately, taking a small and slightly panicked-looking step backwards. “No, I...we can’t. I mean. I’m _really_ not supposed to be here. And I just wanted to make sure everyone was okay, and they are, and we should go _._ ”

“Enjolras, don’t,” Courfeyrac says, sounding horrified. He reaches for him again, but Enjolras takes another step back.

“I really need to go,” he keeps saying. Courfeyrac manages to catch his arm when he turns and tries to make a break for it.

“Wait a second, just _wait_!” he squawks. He produces a pen from his pocket, pushes up Enjolras’s sleeve and starts scribbling something on his arm. “This is my number, okay? If you ever, y’know, need something, or if you change your mind about catching up...” He trails off. Enjolras just _looks_ at him. Grantaire is trying not to look at his soul, because it’s a mess and it’s making him feel queasy. The gold shine is almost completely obscured by heavy, inky blue-black.

“The others would give anything to see you,” Courfeyrac says, miserable but hopeful.

Enjolras just shakes his head – once, twice – and then he’s pulling his arm free and almost running for the exit. He doesn’t look back.

Grantaire takes one look at Courfeyrac’s crestfallen face before following Enjolras out of The ABC, and he thinks he can understand why he wouldn’t.

“Enjolras,” he calls, hurrying after him.

“Don’t talk to me,” Enjolras snaps when he catches up.

“What did I do?” he asks, affronted.

“ _Witness protection?_ What the hell was that about?” Enjolras hisses at him. “Of all the _ludicrous_ stories-!”

“I didn’t see you coming up with anything better. And he bought it, didn’t he? And you have to admit, it was kind of funny...”

“Nothing about this is funny!” Enjolras stops in the middle of the street and jabs an accusing finger at Grantaire’s chest. “You shouldn’t have got involved! It’s nothing to do with you and it’s _not funny!_ ”

“Woah, hey.” The _hurt_ and anger and bone-deep misery pulsing out of Enjolras’s soul are so much more than Grantaire expected. He’d wanted to be angry with him, but suddenly he can’t, and he’s not really even surprised. He wants to reach out to him instead, soothe him with gentle touches to his hair, face, shoulders, but he knows Enjolras would never allow himself to be comforted in such a way. “Enjolras. It’s that bad?”

“Leave me alone,” Enjolras mutters, starting to speed-walk along the pavement again.

“Enjolras, hey, don’t be angry,” Grantaire says in alarm. He touches his wrist experimentally and, as expected, Enjolras snatches his arm away. “I’m sorry. You’re upset? Of course you’re upset. I was trying to help, really.” He plants himself in front of Enjolras, walking backwards in time with him when he doesn’t stop. “I didn’t even know what was going on. Still don’t know. Come on, don’t be mad. I promise to get you whatever you want for breakfast tomorrow.”

Enjolras finally takes pity on him and his backwards-walking and stops. He sighs heavily.

“...I should’ve told you earlier,” he concedes quietly. “Just. There are so many students here. I never thought I’d _actually_ run into someone who...y’know.”

Grantaire hums in agreement. Enjolras folds his arms across his chest.

“Aren’t you going to ask?” he says, looking steadily at the ground beneath his feet.

“Will you tell me if I do?” Grantaire counters.

Enjolras sighs again. They start walking, side by side this time, neither trying to leave the other behind.

“You were a student here,” Grantaire says. It’s not a question.

“Yes.” Enjolras’s voice is soft and far-away.

“You had friends here.”

“Yes.”

“That’s why Combeferre wanted you to stay away. He wanted to avoid...well. The exact thing that just happened.”

“He felt that my personal attachment to this place and its people might affect my judgement and make me less...reliable,” Enjolras says stiffly.

‘Less reliable’. Translation: even more fiercely determined to fight the good fight than usual. Even more likely to throw himself in harm’s way.

“And yes, he also thought it would be detrimental to all concerned if I was to be seen by people who once knew me,” Enjolras goes on.

“I don’t know about that,” Grantaire says cautiously. “Courfeyrac seemed pretty happy to see you.”

Enjolras’s soul seems to shrivel slightly at the mere mention of his name.

“But he can’t see me,” he says. “He shouldn’t have seen me. It had been three years. Another three years, and maybe he would have stopped thinking about me completely. Now he’ll have to start again.”

 _And so will you,_ Grantaire thinks but does not say.

“I didn’t mean for him to spot me,” Enjolras says. “I insisted on taking this job because I want to protect him and the others. Combeferre thinks that a personal attachment is a bad thing but I disagree. What’s the sense in me fighting for strangers if I can’t also fight for the people I care about when the need arises? This is what I _do,_ and I’ll take twice the care that any other hunter would to make sure that this place is safe before I leave.” He pauses and glances at Grantaire, as if checking that he’s not laughing at him. “I had to come here. I had to make sure they were okay.”

 _And you want to see them,_ Grantaire thinks. _And that’s okay. You can say it. You’re a boy who grew up far too fast and you miss your friends._

“You don’t need to protect them from the shadows, Enjolras,” he says. “They can still be your friends. Call Courfeyrac, arrange to see them. You don’t need to cut them out of your life just because _this_ is your life.”

“Of course I do!” Enjolras says, suddenly furious. “They’re civilians! Hunters can’t be attached to civilians. Because that makes them your weak spot. And sooner or later, some monster or other is going to decide they want to find your weak spot and tear it apart. You know that.”

And Grantaire does know, he knows it as surely as he knows his own name, but it just doesn’t seem fair.

“You could tell them the truth,” he says lowly. “Teach them, arm them. They don’t need to be helpless.”

“I wouldn’t drag them into this for the whole world,” Enjolras says with utter finality. “I want them to be happy, and I want them to be safe. I don’t want them to have anything to do with this.”

Grantaire stares at him.

“You know,” he says in disbelief. “I always thought you were in some bizarre state of denial, but you actually _know_ how awful the hunting life is.”

“It’s not the life for everyone,” Enjolras says shortly as they reach their hotel.

Grantaire manages to restrain himself until they’re shut inside their room, and then he resumes.

“You hate it, don’t you?” he says. “You act like it’s this great, honourable crusade, but when you stop and think about it, you hate everything about it.”

“No, I don’t hate it.” Enjolras suddenly sounds calmer and less morose, probably because this is more like one of their usual arguments. “It’s hard sometimes. It’s not a comfortable life, or one that allows for vacations or a home or even stopping in one place too long. And it took me...a while to get used to the killing. It’s ugly, but it’s necessary. I know you don’t understand it, but I am happy, more or less. It feels like I’ve found what I was meant to do. I have a purpose. I have a cause to serve and that makes my life meaningful.”

“Your life was meaningful anyway!” Grantaire explodes at him. He never normally raises his voice, and Enjolras gets such a scare that Grantaire sees his hand twitch instinctively for a weapon. “You had friends here, you had a real life! It’s not just Courfeyrac, I heard him list those other names. And he talked about your parents, too! You have _parents_ still living and you’re-? You meant so much to all those people and you threw that away! You left them all behind without a word, as if they were nothing, so that you could embark on a suicide mission because it makes you feel _validated-?”_

It’s his turn to get a shock when Enjolras steps right into his personal space and clamps a hand over his mouth.

“Stop shouting. You’re going to get us kicked out,” he says firmly. He does not, Grantaire notices, look angry, which is interesting.

“Sorry,” he mutters when the hand is removed. “Shit. I need a drink.”

“No, you don’t,” Enjolras says. He sits down on his bed with his back against the headboard. “You need to listen.”

“I’m listening.”

“This was my decision. Okay? And maybe you think it was the wrong decision. Maybe, to you, finishing my studies and getting a good job and settling down in a big house somewhere would have been the best use of my time. But it’s my life, and this is what feels right to me. And you can have your opinions but you don’t get to decide what constitutes a good and meaningful life.”

His soul is flaring again, gold and bright and so _sure,_ and Grantaire lets it fill up his vision. Some part of him wonders if Enjolras is right and thinks, dismally, that he might be. Maybe this is the only sort of life he could ever feel fulfilled with. Everyday drudgery, whilst certainly safe and considerably more comfortable, just wouldn’t suit him. Could someone with such a fierce and blazing soul – someone so overflowing with protective love for people who wouldn’t even notice when he was dead, and with such a powerful sense of moral responsibility – ever choose to be normal?

“You know that crazy feeling you get when you think about how much you want to keep your friends safe?” Grantaire says, leaning his forehead against the cool glass of their room’s single window. “That feeling like your heart is so far up your throat that you might just puke it up?”

“...Yeah.”                    

“I’ve got that twenty-four-seven with _you,_ you heroic psychopath.” Grantaire chuckles without much humour. “So you’ll have to excuse my periodic outbursts about your disgustingly self-sacrificing choices.”

He hears Enjolras shift uncomfortably.

“I don’t understand why you care so much,” he says. “About me.”

_If you could see yourself through my eyes for just one second, you might understand._

Grantaire does not say that.

“I figure someone ought to,” he says with a shrug, pushing away from the window and going to sit on his own bed. “You seem to be at the bottom of your own list of priorities.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes.

“...You do miss them, don’t you?” Grantaire asks him. He doesn’t need to specify who he’s talking about.

Enjolras’s soul dims.

“Of course. It was hard to leave them behind,” he says, looking fixedly at his knees. “Courfeyrac and I came all the way through school together. It’s been beyond strange to be without him.”

“Tell me about them,” Grantaire says, smiling, because he finally has irrevocable proof that Enjolras is far more human than he shows, and he wants to hear about a time when that side of him was perhaps on display all the time. He wants to be able to picture Enjolras, younger and far less burdened, laughing with this group of friends who have been left to assume him dead.

“You want to hear about my friends?” Enjolras asks, raising an eyebrow that quite clearly says that if this is Grantaire feeling sorry for him, he can take his sympathy and shove it where the sun doesn’t shine.

“They sound like a colourful bunch,” Grantaire says. “Especially the one with all the diseases.”

And, to his surprise but delight, Enjolras _tells him._

He talks about Joly, a medical student with an unfortunate case of hypochondria and various other neuroses, but who still manages to be the most cheerful and good-spirited person you could ever hope to meet. Then there’s Bossuet, a singularly unlucky man to whom anything bad that can happen, will happen – but Enjolras is quick to emphasise that he is not bitter, and merely laughs at his own misfortune, and always says that he used up all his life’s good luck when he found his friends. And they are all _very_ protective of Marius, who is, in fact, the same age as Enjolras, but has always seemed younger. He was home-schooled and turned up to university blushing and shy and awkward. But he’s smart and he’s studying Law not for the prestige but because he is passionate about equality and fairness and justice, and with Enjolras’s tutelage and Courfeyrac’s encouragement, he became quite a force to be reckoned with in the debate society.

Which brings them to Courfeyrac, of course: Enjolras’s faithful lieutenant since the age of nine. The two of them aren’t much alike, Enjolras explains, but maybe that’s why they went together so well? Without Enjolras there to be serious, Courfeyrac might never have actually buckled down and studied at high school to get the good grades that secured him his place at the university here. And without Courfeyrac there to provide some light relief, Enjolras might have studied so much that he’d have caused himself to have a nervous breakdown.

Grantaire finds that easy to believe. It seems only natural that Enjolras has always put two hundred percent into absolutely _everything._

“We struck a good balance, I think,” Enjolras says. He’s looking at the ceiling. He’s remembering. “Without each other, we both might have turned out completely insufferable, in our own way.”

Grantaire doesn’t say that maybe they still need each other’s influence; that he thinks that Enjolras has forgotten how to laugh without his more light-hearted friend, and that for all they know, Courfeyrac could have forgotten how to take the important stuff seriously in Enjolras’s absence. He doesn’t say it, because although it’s true, it would only be cruel.

A strange thing happens while Enjolras is talking. It is as if with every word that passes his lips, every time he smiles or looks melancholy as he recalls a particular character trait or incident, _spaces_ are being filled. Gaps that Grantaire had not previously even been aware were there – empty spaces that had allowed him to think of Enjolras as an unknowable hunter-deity rather than a man – are suddenly being filled with childhood memories and tales of university escapades and the many quirks of a lively group of friends. For the first time, Enjolras becomes fully human in Grantaire’s eyes.

He’s not certain that this is a good thing, for either of them.

When Enjolras finally falls asleep that night, it’s the first time Grantaire sees him sleep poorly. Enjolras doesn’t suffer from the insomnia or night terrors common to hunters; he isn’t haunted at night by the things that he’s seen or the things that he’s done because his certainty that what he does is _right_ and _good_ and _making a difference_ is strong enough to overpower the horrors. But tonight, he’s restless. He dreams – unpleasantly, judging by his pinched brow and his frantically roving eyes beneath his eyelids. He tosses and turns and tangles himself in the sheets.

“Tough day, huh?” Grantaire says in a whisper, getting carefully to his feet. He pads across the room silently and stands over Enjolras’s bed. He agonises only a moment before laying a hand gently on Enjolras’s forehead. He quietens immediately; his frown smoothes out and his breathing slows. Grantaire smiles.

“Look at me, using the unfathomable power of Heaven to give you sweet dreams,” he says out loud. He pulls his hand away. “I think that means I’m officially doomed, don’t you?”

He is, and he knows he is.

Idolising (and occasionally condemning, he supposes) Enjolras the Hunter had been easy and an ideal state of affairs for Grantaire. He was _designed_ for that kind of worship – impossible to deny even if it is intermittently plagued with doubt and anger – and he was built to follow and obey and to play his part on the field of battle.

Except Enjolras isn’t just a hunter anymore. He isn’t just he-of-the-blazing-soul; he’s more than just a beautiful and frustrating and captivating oddity. Now he’s a boy that Grantaire can see in his mind’s eye – a boy who studied too much and took school far too seriously and probably made himself sick with stress whenever he thought he hadn’t done well enough, who had a friend that reminded him to smile and who stuck with him all the way into adulthood, who met an old drunk hunter in a graveyard and decided to throw away everything he’d worked so hard for because _he wants to keep other people safe even if it means that he can never be safe._

Angels can love. That’s part of their programming, too; to love their Father and each other and all of humankind. But it’s a cold, distant thing; an almost tiresome matter of business. They do it the same way that humans breathe or blink or pump blood. Automatically, dispassionately. It’s just _there._

That’s not what Grantaire is feeling now.

He thinks, with some dismay, that some final piece of a puzzle he wasn’t even aware he was putting together has fallen into place, and he might love Enjolras. The more human kind of love. It’s an unfamiliar, burning, urgent and unspeakably tender feeling. And it is one thing he was certainly not built to feel.

This wasn’t the plan at all.

“Oh, shit,” he whispers into the quiet darkness.

~

Grantaire concludes that the only way to cope with such a monstrous epiphany is to think about it as little as possible. Which means, of course, that he can think about nothing else and has to spend the entire night schooling himself to act perfectly normal while internally waging war with himself over being possibly the first wavelength of celestial intent _ever_ to go and develop a crush on a human.

He thinks he manages pretty well. He suspects he might have had something of a rabbit-in-the-headlights look to him when Enjolras actually woke up but since, as he well knows, Enjolras is decidedly not a morning person, he’s fairly sure he avoided suspicion. Enjolras barely looked at him before grabbing some clean clothes and stumbling to the bathroom, at which point Grantaire made his escape to pick up the morning coffee.

He’s a little more collected by the time he gets back. Which is lucky, because Enjolras is a little more awake.

While they’re eating breakfast, there’s a knock at their door. They exchange confused glances and then Grantaire goes to answer it. Enjolras is probably panicking and thinking that they were followed back here last night and now all his old friends are waiting out there to ambush him; Grantaire only hopes it isn’t the hotel manager coming to tell them that their neighbours have complained about the shouting last night. Even that would be a welcome distraction from all the current noise in his head.

It turns out to be a young boy – around eleven, maybe – that Grantaire is fairly certain he’s never seen before. Nonetheless, he finds himself on the receiving end of a winning, toothy grin.

“Important correspondence from your watcher,” he says with put-on formality, holding out an envelope.

“Éponine?” Grantaire says in surprise before it clicks. “Aah. You’re her brother?”

“That’s right.” The boy’s grin widens. When Grantaire reaches for the envelope, he jumps back and takes it out of his reach. “And did you know my sister doesn’t give me anything for running errands for her? You should give me something.”

“We have pain au chocolat?” Grantaire says, amused (because the promised granola bar was an outright lie and he isn’t even sorry). The boy’s face lights up.

Enjolras looks highly perplexed when Grantaire comes back inside with a strange child they do not know. His gaze flicks towards his bag, where Grantaire knows his flask is currently stashed.

“If you even think about pouring holy water over a kid...” he starts mock-threateningly.

“No worries,” the boy says brightly, lifting up his shirt to reveal what is definitely an anti-possession tattoo on his chest.

“They got you inked already, huh?” Grantaire says with a grim smile.

“All my friends are really jealous,” the boy chirps.

His name turns out to be Gavroche, and he relinquishes the envelope without complaint once they sit him down at the room’s tiny table and ply him with pastries. Grantaire watches while Enjolras reads the enclosed letter with his lips pressed into a thin line.

“One of the original two witnesses came to The ABC last night. Éponine got talking to her,” he says finally. “It was the girl who saw the thing in the bathroom. She told Éponine that she saw it reflected in one of the mirrors and that it was a woman.” He pauses and wrinkles his nose slightly. “A dead woman. As in, dead and decaying.”

“Nice,” Grantaire remarks. “Sounds more like a deleted scene from _Dawn of the Dead_ than ghost activity, though.”

“Maybe,” Enjolras says absently. “There was another sighting yesterday, too. Éponine only got wind of it after we left.”

“Let me guess,” Grantaire says, letting his head fall back and sighing at the ceiling. “Different witness, different place, same description?”

“Yeah. Same building as one of the others, though. The Bourg.”

“Do you think we’ll be able to get inside to look around?”

“...I will,” Enjolras says. When Grantaire raises a questioning eyebrow, he takes his wallet from his bag and produces a card from it. Grantaire laughs.

“I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to return your student card when you decide to become a college drop-out,” he says before holding out his hand. “Hand it over, I want to see your photograph.”

“Why?” Enjolras asks, puzzled, but he complies.

“Because _awwww_ ,” Grantaire says. Seventeen year-old Enjolras stares unsmilingly up at him. His hair was longer back then, and his face a little rounder – he actually looks closer to fifteen. “Look at that cute little face.”

“I don’t even look that different,” Enjolras says, snatching it back.

“What’s your point?” Grantaire smiles widely, because possibly-maybe-kind-of being in love with Enjolras doesn’t make teasing him any less fun.

“There’s no security at the main entrance, so getting in isn’t an issue. The staff just has a policy of demanding student ID from anyone they don’t recognise caught wandering the halls,” Enjolras says, wordlessly forbidding any further discussion of his more baby-faced self.

“I’ll tag along, anyway,” Grantaire says. “If anyone asks, you can tell them I’m your Russian pen-pal who is very interested in studying here.”

“If anyone asks, I’m telling them you’re not with me,” Enjolras says dryly.

“Ouch.”

“Also, I want to know how Éponine knew where we’re staying,” Enjolras says. “Did you tell her?”

“No.” Grantaire blinks. “I thought Combeferre told her.”

“Combeferre doesn’t know either,” Enjolras points out.

Their perplexed silence is eventually broken by a giggle. They both turn to see Gavroche wearing a very proud smile as he chews his (well, their) food.

“We got stalked by a pre-teen?” Grantaire says, impressed despite himself. He supposes they were too busy fighting like a couple of kids themselves last night to have noticed. Enjolras looks appalled.

“We need to be more vigilant,” he says.

Gavroche just smirks.

Éponine had concluded her letter with strict instructions for them to make sure that Gavroche got to school on time, in return for her being kind enough to send them information via him rather than waiting until their next rendezvous at The ABC. Grantaire is almost sad to see him go – he found the kid quite funny, and he turned out to be an excellent distraction. Now he’s alone again, with only Enjolras and his own mixed-up, messed-up and terribly incompatible feelings for company.

The best course of action, he decides, is to ignore the problem entirely.

 _Or drink the problem away,_ a drawling inner voice suggests. _That usually works._

He scowls, realises he’s scowling and quickly stops before Enjolras notices.

No, he’ll ignore it. At least until this job is done.

Then he might try drinking it away.

Walking a child to their school gates seems to be another one of those things that Enjolras finds more discomfiting than killing monsters with a sword, and he mutters something about passing on his cell-phone number to Éponine later.

“Or you could call Combeferre and get him to tell her right now,” Grantaire suggests as they start towards the university.

Enjolras says nothing.

“Are we still not talking to Combeferre?” Grantaire asks.

“...I’m not very good at lying to him,” Enjolras says finally.

“Oh, last night, right.” Grantaire doesn’t think Combeferre is really the ‘I told you so’ type, but he imagines it would sting Enjolras’s pride nonetheless to admit to him that his concerns regarding Enjolras’s ties to Lyon had been soundly justified on their very first night here.

“I’ll tell him everything after the case is closed and everything’s back to normal,” Enjolras says. “He’d only worry and try to convince me to leave if I told him now.”

“Éponine will probably tell him that you got hugged by a random student in her bar,” Grantaire says. “She didn’t know what that meant, but Combeferre probably will.”

“Shit,” Enjolras groans, quickening his pace.

~

Getting into the building is easy, as Enjolras had said it would be. And, of course, since Enjolras already knows the layout, it doesn’t take them long to find the approximate location of the alleged ghost sighting.

Enjolras has an EMF detector, which Grantaire recognises as the sort that Combeferre puts together at the Musain when he has his brief moments of respite from research and delegating cases and just generally keeping the hunting community halfway organised. He makes these things mainly from old cell-phone parts and distributes them to any hunter dumb enough to be tracking ghosts without one. Grantaire wishes he had been at the Musain when Enjolras first arrived, probably still looking about sixteen, brimming with enthusiasm and determination but without experience or knowledge or much equipment of any kind. Combeferre probably had to tie him to a chair to stop him from rushing out to save innocent citizens before he was properly prepared.

The EMF meter is silent and unresponsive today, however. Enjolras slowly walks the entire length of the main corridor of the Languages department, which is thankfully empty for the moment, but there’s nothing.

“Either there was nothing here to begin with, or the spirit hasn’t been back here since that last sighting and the traces of it have faded,” he says quietly.

“If it’s a ghost, the only way it could be so mobile would be if it was attached to an object instead of a place,” Grantaire says. “And if it’s an object that a student is carrying, you’ll never find it.”

“Hmm.” Enjolras doesn’t appear to be listening. His attention has been caught by the line of large windows running the length of the corridor. These windows look directly onto the building next door and, presumably for this reason, the glass is tinted. Their own reflections look back at them instead of an outside view.

“The other girl said she saw it in a bathroom mirror,” Enjolras says thoughtfully.

“Of course she did. That’s how haunted bathroom stories go.”

“Maybe.” Enjolras turns abruptly and strides off in the opposite direction. “We should check the site of the latest sighting.”

The latest sighting, as it turns out, was in the Law department, though that’s hardly a surprise, since this is a Law building and the vast majority of it is devoted to that particular area of study. The corridors are quiet and no one even gives them a second glance, but Enjolras is visibly on edge. Grantaire doesn’t think that even their luck could be so atrocious that they’d meet his friends twice in the space of twenty-four hours.

They pass a large student notice-board on one wall, and Enjolras halts mid-step. Grantaire tries to follow his line of sight to see what caught his attention and, _oh._

There’s a large sign advertising an upcoming Valentine’s Day themed night at the student union, with various related games and contests, including a prize for ‘the most sickeningly loved-up couple’. Surrounding the notice are photos of all the couples who have apparently been nominated for this prestigious award. Grantaire is willing to bet he knows which one caught Enjolras’s eye.

“Is that your Marius?” he asks, because of course it is. The picture, labelled ‘Marius Pontmercy + Cosette Fauchelevent’, shows a sweet-faced young man smiling adoringly at a girl who is laughing and trying to hide her face from the camera.

Enjolras nods. The photo has been cheaply printed in grainy black and white, but Grantaire doesn’t doubt that it’s still more than clear enough for Enjolras to see just how much his friend has changed and grown up in his absence. And found love, too, by the looks of it. Marius, who had needed Enjolras’s guidance in almost everything when they met, has managed to attain something that Enjolras has doomed himself never to experience.

“He looks happy,” Grantaire says. Enjolras manages a small smile.

“He does,” he agrees, and they move on.

When they reach the part of the building where, according to Éponine’s sources, the ghost was last spotted, Enjolras doesn’t even bother with the EMF detector. He sees those same tinted windows and just nods once, decisively.

“We can go,” he says.

“What did you see?” Grantaire asks, bemused, as they head for the exit.

“Quiet,” Enjolras says. “I’m thinking.”

~

He continues thinking all the way back to the hotel and for a further half hour in the room, too. Grantaire keeps his mouth shut and leaves him to it. When Enjolras is puzzling out the answer to something related to a case, he takes being interrupted with the same kind of offence that a bomb disposal officer might express if someone pulled a party-popper next to their ear while they were deactivating an especially tricky IED.

At last, just when Grantaire was starting to suspect that this was going to get lengthy and that he should probably go and fetch fresh coffee, Enjolras comes out of his reverie.

“I need to talk to Éponine again,” he says.

“Yeah?” Grantaire says, looking up from his sketchbook.

“Yes.” Enjolras’s fingers are tapping out an erratic beat on the tabletop. He clearly wants to go _now,_ but it’s still early, and they don’t even know if Éponine will be at The ABC tonight. “I don’t think it’s a ghost. Ghosts don’t typically look like they’re...rotting.”

“But you think there’s something?”

“I think it’s a wraith.”

That makes Grantaire sit up straight. He’s not afraid of wraiths – they pose no threat to him, after all – but he does find them particularly distasteful amongst their monster brethren. Sucking humans’ brains dry via a retractable spike is just an unnecessarily gruesome way of killing.

“Those things are predators,” he reminds Enjolras. “No one’s been killed.”

“No one at the university has been killed,” Enjolras corrects. “That’s why I need to talk to Éponine. If there have been deaths elsewhere in the city, she might have heard about them.”

“She’d have told you if there had been any strange deaths.”

“They wouldn’t look all that strange, though,” Enjolras says. “It’s easy to miss the puncture wound from a wraith. No pathologist is going to be looking for it. And if I’m right, it’s probably preying on people whose disappearance might not immediately be reported.”

“What are you thinking?” Grantaire asks him.

“It’s been sighted three times at the university now, but no one there has been harmed.” Enjolras steeples his fingers in front of him as he talks and it should look ridiculous but he somehow manages to pull it off. “So, if it is a wraith, it isn’t using the university as a hunting ground. So why is it there at all? It’s cloaking itself, too. I know they usually disguise themselves as humans, but this one seems to be trying to go completely unnoticed. A mirror always shows a wraith’s true form, though, so three people have seen it in a reflection. But most places on campus – lecture halls, classrooms, even most corridors – don’t have mirrors. The fact that it’s been sighted three times does not mean that it’s only been there three times. I think it goes to the university a lot.”

“Why?”

“I think it’s looking for a specific person,” Enjolras says with a slow nod. “It’s looking for someone and it doesn’t want them to know that it’s coming.”

“Which is why it’s hunting elsewhere, and discreetly.” Grantaire nods too. The logic is sound, at least.

“I need confirmation of nearby deaths, though. Deaths which could conceivably be wraith victims. Otherwise the theory falls flat.”

“Well, you know who always has that sort of information at their fingertips,” Grantaire says, a smile playing on his lips.

“We have no way to contact Éponine beyond sneaking into her brother’s school and asking _him._ Personally, I wouldn’t like to have to explain to the authorities why I was stalking a ten year-old.”

“I don’t mean Éponine and you know it.”

Enjolras shoots him a betrayed look. Grantaire just shrugs.

“You want information,” he says. “And honestly, even if Éponine did tell him what happened last night, he won’t _bite._ ”

This earns him another sulky look, but Enjolras doesn’t argue. He calls Combeferre.

“Morning, you two,” he says, on speakerphone again, when he picks up.

“Morning,” Grantaire replies brightly, mainly to annoy Enjolras, which is always fun. “How is our beloved Paris today?”

“Busy. People have been calling non-stop since before six. Got a group down in Macedonia; seems a bunch of lamia decided they’d have enough of Greece and are wreaking havoc there instead. Bizarre.” Anyone else would probably sound harassed, but Combeferre doesn’t do harassed. “What’s happening in Lyon?”

“Possible wraith,” Enjolras says. “I need to know if there have been reports of any disappearances or unexplained deaths nearby since the sightings began.”

“A wraith?” Combeferre repeats, surprised. “Why a wraith?”

“Because the facts seem to point towards that answer, of course,” Enjolras says just a bit snappishly. “Why else?”

Combeferre sighs.

“Enjolras, listen. I know you were recognised last night-”

“It’s not a problem.” Enjolras’s blue eyes turn stormy. “We dealt with it.”

“And I know that seeing one of your old friends probably made you even more determined to keep them safe. But you can’t let that cloud your judgement. You need to be realistic.”

“I’m being perfectly realistic. I’m looking at the evidence that has presented itself and I’m interpreting it accordingly.”

“When I called to tell you about this ‘case’, it was purely out of courtesy to you, because I know your background,” Combeferre says. “I didn’t expect you to run straight down there and, honestly, I didn’t expect you to find anything, least of all something as dangerous as a wraith. It’s probably _nothing,_ Enjolras.”

Enjolras doesn’t reply. He turns on his heel, snatches up his bag, and walks out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

“He just walked out, didn’t he?” Combeferre says with another sigh.

“Sure did,” Grantaire replies.

“You’re with him all the time,” Combeferre says. “So you’ll know better than me. How does he seem to be coping with...this?”

“He’s worried about the people he knows here – which, I have to admit, is taking some getting used to. But he’s not hysterical. He’s not imagining danger where danger is not.”

“Two students claiming they saw a ghost does not mean a wraith.”

“Three students, now,” Grantaire corrects mildly. “And it seems likely that they all saw it reflected in a mirror.”

Combeferre pauses.

“Do you think he’s right?” he asks.

“I think we could all know for sure whether he’s right or not if we found out if there have been any deaths nearby.”

“Of course there will have been deaths nearby. People die all the time,” Combeferre says. “There’s no way to know for sure whether someone was killed by a wraith beyond breaking into the nearest morgue and checking the bodies yourself.”

“...Why didn’t I think of that?” Grantaire mutters, getting to his feet.

“Grantaire?”

“We’ll call you later,” he says. “You know, once Enjolras cools off.”

“What are you going to do?”

“The usual. Solve the case, save some folk, you know how it is.”

“Don’t get arrested.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t let Enjolras get himself arrested.”

“Okay.”

“And please, watch out for him. I know he doesn’t make it easy, but try.”

“You’re worried about him,” Grantaire states, somewhat redundantly, with a grin that he is quick to guiltily smother. He just thinks it’s a little bit funny that, a few months ago, Combeferre was worried about _him_ being a threat to Enjolras, and now he’s looking to him to ease his concern about Enjolras being a threat to himself.

“I always worry about him.” And Grantaire _likes_ that about Combeferre; that he can say that so straightforwardly, and mean it. “But whether there’s a case in Lyon or not, this will be hard for him. He wasn’t born to this life like I was. It must be difficult, seeing how your own little corner of the normal world has moved on without you.”

Grantaire, remembering how Courfeyrac had held onto Enjolras’s shoulders with a white-knuckled grip, isn’t so sure that this particular corner of the world _has_ moved on, but he doesn’t say so.

“Like I said,” he says. “We’ll call you later.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “...Alright, now what?” Grantaire asks finally.
> 
> “I don’t know,” Enjolras says. He starts to pace back and forth, so far as that is possible in this narrow space. “We wait?”
> 
> “We wait for the invisible wraith to show up,” Grantaire says, sliding down the brick wall at his back to sit on the ground. “Right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay - this chapter gave me a lot of trouble and actually ended up having to be mostly rewritten and then it got so long that all the words almost drowned my friend Orro when she tried to proof-read it for me. Be prepared.
> 
> Wonderful tumblr-user [whatisthecat](http://www.whatisthecat.tumblr.com) has made some awesome character photosets for this story! Here are some links to those because everyone should look at them, they are beautiful and I love them so:
> 
> [Enjolras](http://www.whatisthecat.tumblr.com/post/54199937374/under-my-wings-you-will-find-refuge-les) | [Grantaire](http://www.whatisthecat.tumblr.com/post/54200519614/under-my-wings-you-will-find-refuge-les) | [Combeferre](http://www.whatisthecat.tumblr.com/post/54201204901/under-my-wings-you-will-find-refuge-les) | [Éponine](http://www.whatisthecat.tumblr.com/post/54369669421/under-my-wings-you-will-find-refuge-les)
> 
> And feel free to come say hi to me on [tumblr](http://www.fivie.tumblr.com) too, if you so wish! I'll possibly be posting some extra scenes from this story (from Enjolras's perspective) there so keep an eye out if you're interested~
> 
> And a big thank you to everyone who has left kudos and/or lovely comments, they make me very, very happy.

~

Enjolras finally comes back to the hotel, looking relatively calm, late in the afternoon.

“I hope you ate lunch,” Grantaire says absently.

“I was at the library,” Enjolras says, which Grantaire takes as a ‘no’. “I needed to use the internet, since it seems I’m doing my own research for this case.”

“Find anything?”

“Yes. According to some of the more obscure bestiaries, there is a particularly rare type of wraith which can actually make itself invisible instead of just taking human form.” He pauses. “Well, what it actually said was that it can project a sort of perception-distorting aura which renders humans unable to see it, but it amounts to the same thing.”

“But it still feeds with the wrist-spike to the brain?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm.” Grantaire reaches over and picks up Enjolras’s phone, which had accompanied him on his visit to the morgue. “I have a present for you.”

“If it’s more pastries...” Enjolras starts threateningly.

“I’m afraid not.” Grantaire throws the phone to him. “Check the photos.”

Enjolras looks first at the phone, then at him.

“...It’s nothing _weird_ ,” Grantaire says when he realises that he is being looked at with suspicion. “Well. I’m sure a normal civilian would find it very weird. But I think it’ll be relevant to your interests.”

After one more mistrusting frown, Enjolras starts to look though the photos saved on the phone. His expression becomes one of disbelief as he scrolls through the several pictures Grantaire took of various John and Jane Does with a hard-to-spot but distinctive puncture wound at the base of their skulls.

“Where did you get these?” he asks.

“Local morgue,” Grantaire replies.

“ _How?_ ”

“I snuck in.”

“How?”

“By being very sneaky.”

“That’s not an answer,” Enjolras says angrily. Grantaire shrugs and tries to look as unassuming as possible.

“What, do you want a blow-by-blow account? It was a perilous mission, but I survived. And look, you’ve got your proof. You’re right. It’s a wraith.”

Enjolras looks set to argue the impossibilities of a broad-daylight morgue break-in, but then the phone in his hand starts ringing. He glances at the screen and then throws it back to Grantaire.

Combeferre, then.

“He’s not cooled off yet,” Grantaire says when he answers.

“There’s been an attack at the university,” Combeferre says. “Éponine just heard. It just happened, she says the ambulance is still in the street.”

“Someone’s dead?”

“No, injured. A professor. And screaming about ghosts, according to all the hysterical students pouring into The ABC. You two should get down there before they clean things up.”

“Where?”

“The Bourg building. No word yet on which floor. Just follow the crowd, I expect.”

“Right.”

By the time he hangs up, Enjolras is halfway out the door again.

“How’s your blade against wraiths?” he asks as they go.

“For the final time,” Grantaire says, “it kills _everything._ ”

~

Following the crowd to the scene of the crime turns out to be extremely easy. The building, which had been so quiet that morning, is buzzing with panic and confusion. There are police officers trying to keep people out, but Enjolras knows all the back doors for getting in, and they soon join the gathered throng of morbidly curious students on the third floor. The police are trying to disperse them, but to little avail.

The authorities clearly think this was an assault of the more everyday variety; someone is taking photographs of the small puddles of blood on the tiled floor. Enjolras isn’t looking at the floor, though. He’s staring, transfixed, at the notice-board on the wall.

Another poster for the Valentine’s themed night. Another cluster of photos of Jean Moulin University’s most sickeningly loved-up couples.

Someone, or something, has smeared an ominous, bloody ‘X’ over Marius’s face.

Grantaire winces. Without a word, Enjolras turns and runs for the stairs. Grantaire follows, ignoring the odd looks they’re getting for their haste.

“Enjolras, calm down,” Grantaire says when they’re back on the street.

“No,” is the blunt reply. “I mean, _Marius?_ Why is Marius suddenly involved? He has nothing to do with anything!”

“Well, apparently that’s not the case.”

“There is absolutely no reason for him to be a target! Since when do wraiths even choose specific targets?”

“I don’t know. But, at the very least, this gives us somewhere to start with tracking the thing,” Grantaire says.

“I won’t use Marius as bait.”

“You don’t have much choice. If the wraith is going after him next, all you can really do is stick close to him and wait for it to make its move.”

“I don’t even know where he lives anymore.” Enjolras shakes his head in annoyance. “How am I supposed to find him?”

“That’s obvious,” Grantaire says. “You call Courfeyrac, you tell him you want to see everyone-”

“No.” Enjolras cuts him off sharply.

“Then what?”

“...I know where he _used_ to live,” Enjolras mutters. “We should at least check there first.”

They both know that students tend to relocate quite frequently, and that if Marius and his Miss Fauchelevent are as grotesquely in love as their photograph suggests then there is every chance that they now have a flat together somewhere, but Grantaire doesn’t argue. He never does, when Enjolras is so supremely agitated.

“You better lead the way, then,” he says instead.

~

The building that Enjolras leads them to looks almost too upmarket to be student accommodation. That doesn’t come as much of a surprise, though, since Enjolras had given Grantaire a brief breakdown of the situation on their way here: Marius is supported by a wealthy grandfather (which all but eliminates any chance of him being somehow connected to the hunting world through his family; there’s no such thing as a rich hunter) and, at the time when Enjolras up and left Lyon, had been in the process of arranging to share one of these flats with Courfeyrac, who also comes from a fairly affluent background.

“And you’re sure this is the place?” Grantaire asks.

“They made me help them choose a flat,” Enjolras says. For a moment he looks rather haunted by the memory. “Believe me, I remember which one they _eventually_ settled on.”

“Alright.” Grantaire rocks back on his heels. “So how do we establish whether or not your Marius still lives here?”

Enjolras frowns and twists his mouth from side to side as he thinks about this.

“We could knock the door and then run and hide,” Grantaire suggests with a grin.

“No.”

“I could pose as a travelling salesman.”

“Shut up,” Enjolras says absently, his eyes fixed on the building with single-minded concentration, as if he could see through the walls to find his answer if he tried hard enough. Such is his absorption that Grantaire (who really can see past the walls and knows for a fact that Marius is safe inside) is the first to notice the figure hurrying towards them. He wordlessly takes hold of Enjolras’s sleeve and tugs him across the road and into a narrow alleyway between two houses.

“I think Marius still lives here,” he says in response to Enjolras’s questioning look, gesturing towards the newcomer, who approaches the building at a swift pace, which is fairly impressive considering the high heels she’s wearing.

Despite having only seen a poor quality, monochrome photograph of her before, both Enjolras and Grantaire can see quite clearly that this is Cosette, Marius’s lady-love. She looks slightly out of breath as she pushes one of the buzzers on the control pad next to the building’s front door; a moment later the door clicks open and she ducks inside.

“...Alright, now what?” Grantaire asks finally.

“I don’t know,” Enjolras says. He starts to pace back and forth, so far as that is possible in this narrow space. “We wait?”

“We wait for the invisible wraith to show up,” Grantaire says, sliding down the brick wall at his back to sit on the ground. “Right.”

~

“You know, I’m not sure exactly how effective we’re being out here. We can’t even see inside,” Grantaire says after at least an hour and a half of _waiting_. It’s getting dark and the temperature is dropping, and neither of those things affects him particularly, but Enjolras must be cold and painfully bored and his feet must be getting tired, since apparently he’s far too dignified to join Grantaire on the ground.

“What do you suggest?” Enjolras replies. “That I knock on the door and tell him I’m paying him a visit for the first time in three years because a monster is trying to kill him?”

“That could be fun.”

This turns out to be unnecessary, though; a few minutes later, the front door opens, and Marius and Cosette emerge. They step out hand in hand, smiling every time their eyes meet, and it looks like the front cover of a romance novel, and it’s one of those rare moments when Grantaire feels a slight restoration of faith in humanity.

They follow the happy couple from a safe distance. Out of the corner of his eye, Grantaire can see Enjolras bristling, his soul simmering irritably, clearly hating the crushing indignity of essentially stalking one of his old friends.  Marius and Cosette are oblivious to them; they talk in quiet tones as they walk and look at each other more often than at where they’re going. It’s fairly obvious why their photograph was up all over the university – any person feeling remotely cynical about love would look at them and feel sick to their stomach, Grantaire not excepted. They finally reach a restaurant, and the tissue paper red and pink hearts plastered onto its windows remind Grantaire that, _oh yeah, today is Valentine’s Day._

Just as they reach the door of the restaurant and Marius holds it open for Cosette, she pauses and falls back. Enjolras and Grantaire watch, puzzled, as she stands on tiptoe to whisper something in Marius’s ear. Grantaire can hear her telling him to wait for her inside, without offering any explanation as to where she’s going or why, and that strikes him as a little _odd._ Marius in turn looks bewildered and seems to protest; Cosette smiles and silences him with a kiss. She ushers him inside the restaurant and then begins to retrace her steps, coming back down the street towards Enjolras and Grantaire. They slip into a side street, but are more confused than concerned, since there is no risk of Cosette recognising Enjolras. Grantaire wonders if perhaps she lives nearby and forgot something at home. He can’t think of any other reason for her to leave her beau waiting, especially when Valentine’s Day was clearly _made_ for couples like them.

Cosette’s reasoning becomes clear when she swoops into that same side street, brings the spike of her high-heeled shoe down on Enjolras’s foot and, before he (or indeed, a very dazed Grantaire) can recover, produces a small, gleaming knife from the folds of her beautiful cream suede coat and presses the blade to his throat. Enjolras, backed up against the brick wall of the tall building throwing its shadow over the whole scene, can only stare.

“You think you can follow him?” Cosette – the girl who laughed and hid her face because she was embarrassed to have her photo taken – says, her voice calm but frosty. “Did you think I’d allow that?”

“What?” Enjolras manages. He sounds slightly strangled but he can be forgiven for that, considering the knife pressing against his windpipe.

“Don’t move,” she says when Grantaire comes forward. “I’ll hurt him.”

“No, you will not.” Grantaire’s voice is as coldly calm as hers as he closes his hand around her wrist, too quickly for her to do anything about it, and pulls her and her knife away from Enjolras and his very delicate throat. She looks a little stunned by his strength. Enjolras just looks stunned.

Grantaire catches Cosette’s other arm when she brings it up to strike him.

“I can ignore a lot of things,” she’s saying. “I could ignore the sightings, I could even ignore that poor professor being hurt. But you threatened Marius, and that was your mistake.”

“We aren’t the ones trying to harm your beloved,” Grantaire tells her.

“You were following us,” she counters.

“We were,” Grantaire agrees. “You’ll have to forgive us. We didn’t know that Marius was already under the protection of a clearly very _proficient_ hunter.”

Cosette pauses.

“You’re hunters?” she asks.

“ _You’re_ a hunter?” Enjolras wheezes, limping over.

“Are you alright?” Grantaire asks him, taking stock of the way he’s gingerly keeping his weight off one foot, and the thin thread of blood on the skin of his throat.

“Fine,” Enjolras says shortly.

“Is that a silver knife?” Grantaire asks Cosette.

“Yes.”

“Look.” Grantaire jerks his head in Enjolras’s direction. “You cut him. No reaction to the silver. He’s not a wraith.”

“A _wraith?_ ” Cosette repeats, and now it’s her turn to look confused. Grantaire releases her arms, because confused is a step up from enraged and potentially homicidal.

“That’s what’s coming after Marius,” Enjolras says. “Not _me_.”

“If you know that, why haven’t you killed it yet?” she asks.

“Why haven’t you?” Enjolras shoots back. She looks defensive.

“I’m not a hunter,” she says. “Not exactly.”

“Could have fooled me,” Grantaire says, looking at the knife with wry amusement. She wordlessly holds out her hand; understanding, he offers her his own. She makes a cut across his palm.

“And, you see, I’m not a wraith either,” he says when she’s done and satisfied that the wound is normal.

“Wait. That warning was for you?” Enjolras says in sudden realisation. “It’s you this thing is really after?”

Cosette presses her lips together and looks shamefaced, saying nothing.

“Who are you? Really?” Enjolras demands, and Grantaire can understand his anger – Enjolras gave his friends up to keep them safe and away from the world of hunting, and one way or another, despite his efforts, this girl seems to have dragged Marius in dangerously deep.

Cosette, looking distressed, opens her mouth to answer. But, of course, that’s when Marius, who must have gotten too worried to wait any longer, rounds the corner and sees his girlfriend flanked by two strange men, and a knife. It doesn’t matter that she is the one holding the knife; at first, he just sees a knife. He panics. He runs towards them.

“Cosette!” he calls.

“Marius,” she says faintly.

“Oh, no,” Enjolras says, because there is no way out of this. Both he and Grantaire take a step back as Marius reaches them and pulls Cosette into his arms.

“Are you hurt?” he asks her.

“No, no, I was just...” she trails off and makes some vague gesture towards what Marius probably thinks are her attackers. He looks up and his eyes are blazing, but only for a moment. Very quickly, his whole expression morphs from furious to just plain stupefied. Grantaire is getting the strangest feeling of déjà vu.

“Enjolras?” Marius says.

“Um,” Enjolras says.

“Wait, Enjolras?” Cosette repeats, looking between the two of them. “That’s Enjolras?”

“Hi?” Enjolras says.

“ _Hi?_ ” Marius squeaks disbelievingly.

“Marius?” Cosette says pleadingly and everyone is so lost, and Grantaire just has to laugh.

 “Three years, and he says ‘hi’!” Marius is spluttering. “I don’t. Even. Know what to do with that.”

“You’re Enjolras?” Cosette asks, giving up on Marius for the time being. “The one who disappeared?”

 “Yes, that’s me, so you should definitely not try to kill me,” Enjolras says, and of course that brings everyone’s attention back to the knife still in Cosette’s hand.

“Why do you have a knife, Cosette?” Marius asks, and Grantaire thinks it speaks volumes about how much he loves her that he asks that question with nothing but dazed curiosity.

She gives a deep sigh, offers Marius a reassuring smile, and then turns to look at Enjolras and Grantaire again.

“A wraith?” she says.

Enjolras’s golden soul pales to a crystalline, silver-blue of cold anger. Had he thought they could still lie their way out of this? Keep Marius safe and in the dark? Maybe. Grantaire thinks chances of coming up with any halfway credible story were slim. But Cosette has made the choice to come clean for them, and Enjolras doesn’t look inclined to be forgiving about it.

“Almost definitely,” Grantaire says.

Cosette bites her lip, turns back to Marius. He’s clearly been totally thrown by this exchange, but he just waits patiently for her to explain.

“I’m afraid dinner will have to be cancelled,” she says. Marius blurts out a short laugh.

“That’s right,” he says. “I forgot that five minutes ago the world was normal and we were going for dinner.”

“Instead,” Cosette says, “I think it’s time you met my papa.”

~

There are a few surprising things about their walk to Cosette’s home.

The first is that Marius and Enjolras do not talk. Grantaire is initially confused by this, thinking that Marius seems distinctly underwhelmed to see Lyon’s prodigal son compared to Courfeyrac. But a closer look makes him realise that Marius is going along like a man lost in a dream. Occasionally he glances over, sees Enjolras, and jumps, as if he’d forgotten he was there, or had started to think he’d imagined him completely.

The reunion would come later; right now, there is just too much going on for Marius Pontmercy.

The other surprising thing is Enjolras himself. He doesn’t pester Cosette with questions, or try to rouse Marius from his befuddled state. He just lets Cosette lead the way and falls back to, bizarrely, fuss over Grantaire.

“Let me see your hand,” he orders, and Grantaire obeys. Enjolras grimaces at the cut on his palm, which is perhaps a little deeper than necessary for a does-silver-burn-you test. As usual, it’s taking quite a lot of Grantaire’s concentration to prevent it from just healing right here and now.

“That’s a clumsy cut,” Enjolras mutters, digging in his pocket and producing a paper handkerchief. He wads it up and presses it to the wound. “Make a fist around that. Try to staunch the bleeding. We can dress it properly when we get back.”

“It’s not so bad,” Grantaire says. “I hope that tissue was clean.”

“You’re so funny.”

“It is a clumsy cut, though,” Grantaire says, lowering his voice. “I don’t think she’s ever put that blade against human skin before tonight.”

“She’s well-trained,” Enjolras says. “But no, I don’t think she’s had to put the training into practice before.”

“How’s your foot?” Grantaire asks, noticing that he’s still limping slightly. “Broken?”

“No. Just bruised, I think.”

“I’m surprised it’s not impaled on her shoe, what with the way she came storming in,” Grantaire says with a chuckle.

“I was careless.”

“Give yourself a break. If I’d been the one closest to the main street, she’d have got me just as good.”

“I don’t know about that,” Enjolras says, shrugging. “You handled her pretty well back there.”

Grantaire blinks, because that almost sounded like a compliment. Enjolras is looking at him with narrowed, almost accusing eyes.

“You were almost cool,” he says, shaking his head in disbelief. Grantaire’s lips twitch.

“Did you just call me cool?” he asks.

“ _Almost_ cool,” Enjolras corrects.

“No one says ‘cool’ anymore,” Grantaire says.

This unusually spite-free bickering is interrupted by Marius, who seems to be having a moment of lucidity. He turns around from where he and Cosette are walking ahead.

“I’m sorry, but who are you?” he asks Grantaire. “Maybe that was covered already. If so, I missed it. I’m very confused.”

“It’s Grantaire,” he replies, amused.

“We’re colleagues,” Enjolras offers, shooting Grantaire a sideways glance that says that if he even thinks the words ‘witness protection’, Enjolras will kill him. Marius looks at Enjolras and seems to see him for the first time yet again.

“And you’re really, definitely, actually Enjolras?” he says with the terrified smile of a man who can’t quite believe what he’s seeing.

“Definitely,” Enjolras assures him. Marius’s smile widens.

“I knew you weren’t dead,” he says just as Cosette opens a gate and leads them up the garden path to her house.

It looks very ordinary, and not nearly dilapidated enough to be a hunter’s temporary dwelling. Grantaire is curious.

Cosette pushes the front door open and flicks on the light.

“Papa,” she calls. “I’m home. And I brought guests.”

There’s some clattering from further inside.

“We have a strict no-guest policy in this house!” a man’s voice bellows after a moment.

“We’re making an exception,” Cosette says, leading them into the hallway. As they pass over the threshold, Grantaire notes with interest all the various runes and sigils carved into the doorframe.

A man emerges from another room. He’s tall and broad and generally imposing, and his hair is greying but age does not appear to have weakened him in any way. He looks like he could snap any one of them in half. Marius seems to feel this the most keenly, if his suddenly pale face is anything to judge by.

“Papa,” Cosette says, taking Marius’s hand. “This is Marius, whom I’ve told you lots about already.”

“Pleased to meet-” Marius starts in a papery whisper.

“You know that you do not bring people back here,” the man says, ignoring him completely in favour of fixing Cosette with a severe frown.

“And this is Enjolras and Grantaire,” Cosette goes on, gesturing towards them. “They’re currently hunting a wraith at my university.”

The man’s face goes slightly purple.

“Hunters?” he says, his voice quavering with barely-restrained fury. “You brought _hunters_ here?”

“A wraith, papa,” Cosette repeats deliberately. “At my university.”

“I...” The man pauses, torn, but is not deterred. He rounds on Enjolras who, once again, has the misfortune of being the one closest. “Out. I want you out. Your kind brings nothing but trouble, and I don’t want any trouble here-!”

“Sir,” Enjolras says, not flinching even as the man towers over him. “Trouble is already here.”

“Someone’s been hurt, papa,” Cosette says.

“Actually, five people have been killed,” Grantaire puts in. Cosette whirls to look at him with horrified confusion. “Just not at the university. This monster was trying to keep a low profile there.”

“And it might help if we knew why,” Enjolras says.

Cosette’s father looks from Enjolras’s determined stare to his daughter’s imploring face, and visibly deflates.

“Alright. I’ll tell you what I can,” he says. “Then, you go.”

~

The man tells them to call him Valjean. He is a former hunter, and he is not really Cosette’s father.

“I did what every hunter does eventually,” he says as he takes three glasses from a cupboard. “I failed. I was supposed to protect Cosette’s mother, but I didn’t. And she was killed.”

He produces a large silver flask with a crucifix engraved on its surface, and pours the water from it into the glasses, which he pushes towards Enjolras, Grantaire and Marius.

“Drink,” he orders.

“See, this is how civilised people do it,” Grantaire says, taking a sip.

“And you just stopped hunting after that?” Enjolras asks, ignoring him. He and Marius also swallow a mouthful of the water, proving beyond all doubt that they are not demons, though of course Marius doesn’t know that and looks very confused by the whole thing.

“I stopped,” Valjean confirms, sitting down opposite them at the large kitchen table. “I failed to save this woman, and there was her child, frightened and all alone in the world. I could have left her there, or at the mercy of child services, and gone on hunting, but when I sat down and thought about it, that didn’t seem right.”

Enjolras frowns questioningly. Grantaire dearly hopes that no orphaned child is ever left at his mercy.

“You don’t understand that?” Valjean says to Enjolras. “That’s because you’re a certain type of hunter. You only care about the numbers. About how many monsters you can kill, how many people you can ‘save’. I could have left Cosette, gone back to hunting, and gone on to save another hundred lives. But I would still have abandoned a child who needed me. And so it would still have been wrong. I see in your face that you think that’s stupid. Well, you’re young. Maybe one day you’ll learn for yourself that doing everything you can for one person can be just as important as doing what little you must for many.”

“Why is there a wraith at the university here?” Enjolras asks shortly. He doesn’t like being lectured to. Grantaire considers adding that to the list of things he knows about Enjolras, but in the end decides that it’s fairly self-evident. “It’s looking for someone. Who?”

Cosette, standing behind Valjean, sighs.

“Me,” she says.

“And why is a wraith looking for you?” Enjolras asks.

“Because it wants to kill me,” she replies simply.

Marius makes a strangled squeaking noise.

“All wraiths want to do is feed,” Grantaire says. “Why does this one want to kill you specifically?”

“Because,” Valjean says with a bleak expression that makes him look truly like an old man for the first time, “there is no such thing as an ‘ex-hunter’. No one gets out of this life once they’re in it. Not really.”

“You mean you’ve encountered this wraith before?” Enjolras asks. “You were hunting it?”

“I encountered its offspring,” Valjean says. “And I killed it. It was one of the last jobs I worked before I stopped.”

“Wraiths can have offspring?” Enjolras looks revolted by the mere thought.

“They don’t turn people like vampires or werewolves,” Grantaire says. “They must reproduce somehow, or we wouldn’t still be hunting them.”

“After taking in Cosette, I was doing my best to lie low,” Valjean goes on. “I had been reckless; my hunting had attracted the attention of the law. Hunters look like serial killers to any police officer who happens to notice them. But suddenly, there was a child who was relying on me. I couldn’t go to prison. We had to disappear.”

“But the wraith found you,” Enjolras says. He looks almost sympathetic which, for Enjolras, is impressive. Of course, what happened – is happening – to Valjean is Enjolras’s own worst nightmare: the hunting life catching up with you, and those you care about getting caught in the crossfire.

“It did. It wanted to kill me, but then it saw Cosette. It decided that killing her would be a much better punishment for me. It could see that I loved her like my own child.”

“But you didn’t kill it.”

“I couldn’t kill it!” Valjean says angrily, as if Enjolras has failed to understand the fundamental lesson here. “I was being watched. By God, there’s a high-ranking police officer in Paris who, even today, would probably arrest me on sight for a series of murders committed by a shape-shifter I once hunted! Back then, I was practically a fugitive. I couldn’t have killed that wraith without it being noticed.” He shakes his head. “Instead, we ran.”

“We’ve been running a long time,” Cosette says quietly. She sits down beside Valjean and takes his hand. “We never settled in one place for long. Nowhere ever felt safe for long.”

“It was always the police we were hiding from, though,” Valjean says. “I never thought I’d see that wraith again. It’s been years. How can you be certain that it’s anything to do with us? It could be a different one.”

“I think it’s the same one, papa,” Cosette says. “But even if it isn’t, and even if all of this is just a horrible coincidence, this wraith has issued a threat, and for that reason alone, I want it gone.”

“A threat?” Valjean repeats, his expression darkening. “Towards you?”

“Towards Marius,” she tells him.

“What?” Marius looks up, startled, at the mention of his name.

“I won’t stand for that,” Cosette says firmly, looking her father in the eye.

“If you want to keep the boy safe, then go upstairs and pack a bag,” Valjean says bluntly. “We can’t get involved. We’ll move on. We’ll leave in the morning.”

Cosette stands up, goes to Marius, and urges him to his feet. He complies, and he follows her towards the door without question, despite the undoubtedly confusing and terrifying conversation he just heard.

“Excuse us a moment,” Cosette says, and then she leads Marius out of the kitchen and shuts the door behind her.

“You don’t need to run away again,” Enjolras tells Valjean. “There’s no need for you to get involved directly. We can kill this thing without your help.”

Valjean shakes his head again.

“When the past comes knocking, it’s best to be on your way,” he says.

“I’m curious,” Grantaire says. “Why did you train Cosette as a hunter if you never intend for her to do any hunting?”

“For my own peace of mind,” Valjean replies. “It makes me feel better to know that she can protect herself against anything, supernatural or otherwise. Really, she’s in the least danger from the supernatural. She carries a charm that conceals her completely from almost all monsters.”

“And that’s why the wraith can’t find her, even after it traced you two to Lyon?” Grantaire says. Valjean nods.

“It must have realised that it was never going to find Cosette just by looking,” Enjolras says. Grantaire can practically see the gears in his head turning. “It got impatient and it blew its own cover. And it threatened the only person, besides you, that it knows Cosette cares about to try and get her to do the same.”

“Where does one find a charm that makes monsters so completely blind to you?” Grantaire asks lightly. “It sounds like a very useful thing to have.”

Valjean sighs heavily. Grantaire just looks at him expectantly, already half-knowing but wanting to hear it out loud.

“Cosette was ten years old when her mother died,” he says.

“Ten years,” Grantaire repeats. “How interesting.”

Enjolras looks at him strangely. He just shrugs.

“She was killed by a hellhound,” Valjean says.

Enjolras’s eyes narrow, because he knows what that means. Most hunters do.

“It is my belief that, not long after Cosette was born, her mother made a deal to ensure her safety,” Valjean says. “I don’t know the circumstances; I hardly spoke to the woman. I don’t know how she knew about crossroad demons or why she felt she had to make such a terrible bargain to protect her daughter. But it would seem that that is how you procure a charm to repel all monsters.”

“I think we’ll pass,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras nods grimly.

That’s when Cosette and Marius come back into the room.

“I’m not leaving,” Cosette says simply.

“What?” Valjean asks.

“I’m not leaving this city,” Cosette reiterates. “This wraith will follow wherever I go, sooner or later, and in the meantime it will continue to kill people. In that way, I will bring death wherever I go. I refuse to be responsible for that.” She glances at Marius, as if looking for courage, and he smiles at her. She smiles back. “And I have a reason to stay here now. I won’t leave.”

Valjean frowns and opens his mouth to argue, but before manages a single word, he seems to realise that it’s hopeless. It’s probably the way that Marius and Cosette are gazing at each other.

“I won’t have you hunting,” he says instead. He swings his arm in Enjolras and Grantaire’s general direction. “You’ll let these two handle it. If they want to put themselves in danger, that’s their affair.”

“I’ll help them any way I can,” Cosette says agreeably, as if she isn’t stating her intention to do the complete opposite of what her father is asking.

“You’ll stay out of it!” Valjean says, slowly turning red. “I was a hunter once, Cosette; I know how they work! They’ll use you as bait, with no regard for your safety. You’re not just an ‘innocent civilian’, and so you are expendable so long as you help them get a clear shot at killing the thing.”

“Enjolras wouldn’t do that!” Marius exclaims indignantly, and it’s the first time he’s managed to speak with any kind of authority in the presence of Cosette’s father, and it’s enough of a surprise to make Valjean blink and look at him mutely.

“...He wouldn’t,” Marius repeats in the wake of this sudden silence, wilting slightly under Valjean’s gaze.

“You know each other?” Valjean asks.

“Marius is an old friend,” Enjolras says with a faint smile in his direction.

Valjean sighs again, looking like he’d enjoy nothing more than to wash his hands of the whole convoluted situation.

“If you let her get hurt, I will find you,” he says finally, fixing Enjolras and Grantaire with a glare full of deadly promise. He stands to leave the room, but not before shifting this fearful look towards Marius as well. “That goes for you, too.”

Marius nods frantically and lets out a long breath of relief when the door shuts behind Valjean, who has clearly had enough of them all.

“...I told Marius the truth,” Cosette says after a moment. She seems to have picked up on the fact that this is what Enjolras was trying to avoid, and she stands tall and looks him directly in the eye, daring him to pick a fight about it. Enjolras remains silent, which is almost worse.

“The whole truth?” Grantaire says mainly to ease the growing tension. “That was very quick.”

“I expect most people need more convincing,” Marius says with a wobbly smile. “But I know for certain that Cosette is neither a liar nor a lunatic, which leaves only one possible conclusion.”

“I’m sorry it’s not a more pleasant conclusion,” Enjolras says quietly.

“Monsters?” Marius says, shaking his head in disbelief. “I feel like I only just grew up enough to stop believing in those things.”

“I had to tell you,” Cosette says apologetically. “I couldn’t very well ask you if you wanted me to stay without telling you exactly what that entails first.”

“It’s funny that you thought you had to ask at all,” Marius laughs.

Cosette blushes and ducks her head. It’s hard to believe she’s the same person who held a knife to a man’s throat less than an hour earlier.

“That’s where you’ve been all this time, Enjolras?” Marius asks. “Hunting...vampires and ghosts and...things?”

“Yes,” Enjolras replies. His soul is churning and conflicted; he’s unhappy, he’s angry, he’s scared for Marius, but above all there is a wave of _relief,_ and spikes of resultant guilt. Keeping secrets is exhausting – Grantaire knows that all too well. No wonder Enjolras is feeling a certain liberation at being able to turn to someone he knows and just tell them the truth.

“Why?” Marius asks curiously. “What on earth made you decide to go off and do that?”

“I found out about what’s out there, and what those things do to people,” Enjolras says. “I couldn’t know and not do anything about it.”

“...Yes, that sounds like you,” Marius says with a nod. “You should have told us! We were so worried when you just...went.”

“I didn’t want to put you in any danger.”

“While you were throwing yourself headfirst into danger?” Marius laughs again. His laughter is slightly giddy, bordering on hysterical, but no one is about to blame him for that. “That sounds just like you, too.”

“If he was sensible, he wouldn’t be Enjolras,” Grantaire pipes up, grinning.

“Exactly, exactly!” Marius says. He sits down next to Enjolras again, beaming, and says again, “I knew you weren’t dead. But, at the same time, I can’t believe you’re alive.”

Enjolras manages a small smile.

“I’m sorry I worried you,” he says. It occurs to Grantaire that Enjolras might have honestly underestimated how important he was to the people in his life when he made his decision to become a hunter. Had he expected them to shrug and just forget him? Did he think it wouldn’t hurt them? Didn’t he understand that he was loved?

“Does anyone else know you’re here?” Marius asks. He doesn’t try to hug Enjolras like Courfeyrac did – he seems much more reticent in that regard – but his unfading smile and bright eyes, raptly fixed on Enjolras’s face, are enough to show that he’s no less pleased to see him.

“...Courfeyrac saw me last night,” Enjolras says. “At The ABC.”

“Oh. That makes sense,” Marius says.

“It does?”

“He and I are still sharing a flat, and he came home last night looking like he was going to explode. Then we met the others for lunch today, and Joly was convinced Courfeyrac must be coming down with something terrible, he was so strange and jumpy.” Marius shakes his head. “I suppose you told him he couldn’t tell us he saw you. That was cruel, Enjolras. You know he can’t keep a secret to save his life.”

Enjolras looks sheepish.

“It’s really something of a relief to finally meet you,” Cosette says smilingly. “Those boys talk about you a lot. I almost feel like I know you.” She pauses. “Sorry about your foot.”

“It’s fine.”

“And, uh, your throat.”

“Also fine.”

“And, oh, your hand, Grantaire,” she exclaims. He wishes they would all forget about it already so that he can just let it heal. “Here, let me just...”

She rummages in a cupboard and comes back out with a first aid kit. While she expertly dresses the cut – more training from Valjean, no doubt – the conversation switches quickly from Enjolras’s miraculous reappearance to how they’re going to tackle the wraith problem.

“I don’t want to use anyone as bait,” Enjolras says.

“It sounds bad, when you put it like that,” Cosette says. “But since we know for a fact that the wraith is coming after me – and, by extension, Marius – it only makes sense for us to be involved somehow. How else will you ever find it?”

“I don’t like it,” Enjolras mutters. “And anyway, even if we succeeded in getting it to come out and attack you, it could just conceal itself again as soon as it realised it was being hunted. Somehow, we need to force it into visibility. If we can’t see it, we can’t fight it.”

“It can’t see me, either,” Cosette reminds them. “Not while I’m wearing this.”

She reaches under the collar of her coat and pulls out the silver chain around her neck. Hanging from it like a pendant is a small cloth bag; her hard-bought charm, presumably. Some kind of modified, super-powered hex-bag, Grantaire supposes.

Enjolras looks at it with the particular brand of intensity that tells Grantaire that he’s _having a thought._

“Cosette,” he says. “Does this wraith know you have that charm?”

“I don’t think so,” she replies with a blink.

“And does the charm only work for you?” Enjolras asks. “Could someone else wear it?”

“Oh my, I think Enjolras has a plan,” Grantaire says with a smile.

“I think so too.” Cosette has clearly caught onto Enjolras’s train of thought. Her eyes shine excitedly. “I see no reason why it wouldn’t work for someone else.”

“All that remains to be seen is, while someone else is wearing the charm, will the wraith make itself visible to you?” Grantaire says. “If it stays concealed, we’ll have a problem.”

“I think it’ll want me to see it,” Cosette says. “Apparently it’s been looking for me for over ten years. I’m pretty sure it’s going to want to do at least a little monologue after all that effort.”

“I don’t want to take any chances,” Enjolras murmurs, shaking his head. “We should have a contingency plan. Wraiths can always be seen in mirrors. If we could lure it to an enclosed space, it could be possible, with enough mirrors, to create a space where it can’t hide.”

“There’s a cheaper, easier and much less visually confusing solution,” Grantaire says. “I think you’re forgetting that, although it’s invisible, it’s still...corporeal.”

“What do you suggest, then?” Enjolras asks.

Grantaire grins.

~

“This is a terrible plan.”

Enjolras’s voice, crackling through the phone pressed to Grantaire’s ear, is full of resigned acceptance that they’re going through with this terrible plan in any case and all he can do is be completely prepared for when it inevitably goes to shit. It’s taken them a few days to figure out the logistics of this plan and put it into motion, and Enjolras has done little but lament how awful it is in that time.

“It was mostly your idea,” Grantaire points out. “I hardly contributed one little detail.”

“I know. But.”

The words _‘but your one little detail makes the whole thing so ridiculous that I fear for us all’_ never leave Enjolras’s mouth, but Grantaire can fill in the blanks on his own. He has to admit, Enjolras’s face when they went to an art store to pick up the required ten bottles of cheap poster paint had been a hilarious and perfect study in _agonising regret_ about ever agreeing to give this a try.

“Don’t worry,” Grantaire says. “It’s going to work.”

“There must be a more dignified way to do this,” Enjolras goes on.

“We spent quite a lot of time today getting Marius’s apartment prepped,” Grantaire says, trying not to laugh too much at the growing desperation in Enjolras’s voice. “If you pull the plug now, I will take all that paint going to waste as a personal affront.”

“I’m not going to call it off,” Enjolras grumbles. “It’s ridiculous and it’s terrible, but it’s in motion now.”

“And it’s going to work,” Grantaire says again. “Have Marius and Cosette left the restaurant yet?”

He knows they haven’t; he can actually see them, two little specks sitting at a table right next to the window and doing their very best to act natural. However, Enjolras thinks that Grantaire is holding the fort back at Marius’s apartment, not on the roof of the high-rise opposite the restaurant. Enjolras himself is in the cafe approximately twenty-three floors beneath Grantaire’s feet, keeping an eye on the proceedings and, as far as he is aware, keeping Grantaire updated on their progress.

“Not yet,” Enjolras replies. “It looks like they’ve finally finished eating, though.”

“Give them a break, they have to make this look convincing.”

“...Do you think the wraith is watching?” Enjolras asks, his voice dropping almost to a whisper, presumably so as not to alarm the people sitting near him.

“Definitely.” Grantaire can see it, too, from his vantage point. It’s standing in plain sight, unconcerned, since none of the humans going about their business down there can see it, but its perception-distorting cloak does nothing to hide it from an angel’s eyes. It’s watching Cosette hungrily. It shows no sign of being remotely suspicious that she’s suddenly become so easy to find, which is good because it means that Enjolras, who currently has Cosette’s charm hanging around his neck, will almost definitely have the element of surprise when the crucial moment comes.

Grantaire grimaces as he watches it prowling back and forth. He’d like to kill it, right now. It’s highly aggravating that he can’t, purely because it would be impossible to explain to Enjolras afterwards.

 It’s a tremendous game, playing at being human, but sometimes it’s hard to play at their pace.

“I hope it wasn’t watching the night Cosette apprehended us,” Enjolras is saying. “If it saw us...”

“No point in worrying about that now. Just hope it didn’t,” Grantaire says. He knows it didn’t; it wasn’t there that night. He assumes that, despite its grand threat, it hadn’t actually tracked Marius down at that point.

“Wait, I think they’re leaving,” Enjolras says just as Grantaire sees the tiny figures of Marius and Cosette stand from their table and move towards the door. The moment they’re on the street, he hears the screeching of a chair being pushed back through the phone, and then he can see Enjolras too. Marius and Cosette start to walk, and the wraith follows them, and Enjolras does too.

Grantaire, on his rooftop perch, is tense. Enjolras and the wraith can’t see each other, which at least means that the power of Cosette’s charm isn’t exclusive to her, but it also means that Enjolras is unknowingly almost walking shoulder to shoulder with the monster, and Grantaire doesn’t like it. He has no idea what would happen if one of them happened to bump the other. Would it break the wraith’s illusion of invisibility or the spell protecting Enjolras or both or neither? Whatever the case, such an occurrence is unlikely to end well. Enjolras wouldn’t come to harm if things went south, of course; Grantaire could be down there, ready to smite, in half a second. But, oh goodness, there would be no talking his way out of that. And it’d be a shame to take an angel blade to the heart when he’s only just discovered his first taste of what might be real, proper, human _love._

He still thinks that his being in love with Enjolras is, more or less, an absolutely terrible thing. It complicates their situation. It should’ve been an impossible eventuality, too, which only makes Grantaire suspect that this is just another instance of the universe showing him the middle finger for all the things he’s done to offend it over the years.

It doesn’t _feel_ terrible, though.

He flits from rooftop to rooftop, keeping as close as he dares to the outlandish procession below. They are working under the assumption that the wraith will not attack Cosette in a public place, because such a display could, y’know, attract the attention of hunters. They chose Marius’s apartment as their base of operations because, well, Valjean doesn’t exactly _know_ about their plan and would probably disembowel them all if he even caught wind of it, never mind if they asked if they could use his house for it, and apparently Courfeyrac is never home before three AM on a Friday night and so they should have time to clean up the aftermath before he gets back.

They reach Marius’s building without any mishaps, and Grantaire assumes at that point that it should be safe for him to fly back inside the apartment, where he has ostensibly been the whole time.

Naturally, his feet have barely hit the floor before he hears a cry from the stairwell.

“Two seconds,” he mutters furiously, running out of the door (being very careful where he steps). “I leave them alone for _two seconds_ and-”

He falls silent as he reaches the top of the stairs and takes in the scene unfolding before him. The wraith, clearly impatient for its long-awaited kill, has materialised. Its initial lunge at Cosette was either highly inaccurate or intercepted by Marius, because he is the one with the new bloody gash running from his right shoulder across his torso. He seems unconcerned about the injury, though; he’s busy staring, slack-jawed, at the horror that has just appeared two stairs behind him. Telling someone about the existence of the supernatural is one thing; the first time they lay eyes on something as ugly as a wraith is quite another. The thing is grinning – or at least, Grantaire assumes it is, it’s rather hard to tell when so much of the flesh around its mouth is rotted away– and its wrist-spike is already extended and dripping with Marius’s blood.

“Do you remember me?” it says to Cosette, making a show of licking its sparse lips and oh, dear God, how is it even talking with holes rotted clean through its tongue. “Have you had nightmares about me all these years? Don’t you worry. I’m here to put an end to all that.”

Cosette, who was right about the thing wanting to monologue at her, has drawn her silver knife; Enjolras, behind the wraith, has likewise drawn Grantaire’s blade. He looks ready to strike, but is clearly uneasy about that long bony spike, which is now directed towards Cosette and dangerously close to her throat. One wrong move and Enjolras could accidentally cause her to be impaled.

Grantaire sighs and pulls out the silver knife – a spare of Enjolras’s – that he’d been issued with. Cosette and Marius are blocking his shot to a slightly woeful extent, but it’s still easy enough to throw the knife so that it embeds itself with a satisfying _thunk_ in the wraith’s upper arm.

It screams. The whole building must hear. Not good.

“Everyone inside, now,” Grantaire orders, because the last thing they need is _witnesses._

The wraith is still howling in pain as the skin around the buried knife begins to smoke and sizzle, filling the stairwell with an unimaginable stench. Cosette and Marius take advantage of its distraction and scurry up the stairs and past Grantaire. He hopes they remember to watch where they put their feet.

Grantaire is just wondering how he can signal to Enjolras that he should get into the apartment too without giving his position away when several things happen at once: Enjolras lunges for the wraith, just as the wraith twists to pull the knife out of its arm, with the result that Enjolras’s blade only grazes it instead of plunging clean through its chest. Naturally, this means that the wraith still can’t see him, but it sure knows that he’s _there._ It hisses furiously, wrenches Grantaire’s knife from its arm and throws it back at him (and misses) and promptly turns invisible again.

“Oh- shit.” Grantaire picks up his knife and tries his very hardest to look like he can’t actually see the wraith. “Don’t let it touch you, you know that’s how they mess with your brain.”

Enjolras has his back to the wall and is sidling up the stairs with Grantaire’s sword brandished in front of him, and he just _looks_ at Grantaire, perfectly communicating without saying a word something along the lines of ‘wow, I can’t see the fucking thing, remember?’

Grantaire can see it, though, and he can see that it isn’t interested in either of them. It wants Cosette, and it’s going after her.

It’s hard to let it walk past him towards the apartment, but he relaxes a moment later when he hears a tell-tale sloshing sound, closely followed by a loud _clang_ and an outraged shriek.

“I think it tipped the bucket,” he remarks.

“No, really?” Enjolras snaps. He’d clearly hoped to kill the thing before it came to this. “Come on.”

They hurry to rejoin the action – as soon as they’re inside the apartment, Grantaire shuts the door behind them, only hoping that the skirmish on the stairs didn’t attract too much attention.

His expertly rigged bucket is lying on the floor in a small puddle of red paint. Considering how much had originally been in the bucket, the wraith must be absolutely coated in it right now, which is exactly what they want.

They follow the red footprints straight into the living room just in time to see Marius make some poorly judged attempt at heroism by putting himself between Cosette and the wraith, only to immediately be thrown clean across the room. He crashes into a shelf unit full of DVDs, which thankfully does not fall on top of him, and then he wisely stays down.

“Stay between him and the wraith,” Enjolras says sharply, and Grantaire obeys, positioning himself in such a way that he is shielding Marius but it also close enough that he could dive into the fray should anything go wrong.

He doesn’t think this is anything that Enjolras and Cosette can’t handle between them, though. The wraith is still technically invisible but everyone can see it clearly, given that it is covered in a layer of bright red paint. It’s not quite the colour of blood but it’s close enough to make its already hideous face even more ghastly, and Grantaire finds himself thinking, absurdly, that they should have picked a different colour.

“You think you can kill me?” it’s screeching as it bears down upon Cosette, who backs away step for step but keeps her face set in a grim, determined frown. “I’ll crack your skull open, and I’ll deliver your pretty corpse to the man you call father, and-!”

It doesn’t get to finish because, with slightly terrifying suddenness and precision, Cosette stops backing away, shoots forward, and very efficiently slices its throat with her silver knife.

The wraith stares at her through the paint dripping down its twisted face. It makes a few hollow gurgling noises. The wound starts to smoulder.

Then Enjolras stabs it through the chest from behind, and it’s definitely over.

The paint-covered body slumps to the floor, which they at least had the foresight to cover with newspapers. Wraiths, unfortunately, are not one of those considerate breeds of monsters that just vaporise after you kill them, and so they’ll have some rather tricky clean-up to do later. But for the moment, everyone seems quite content to stand and stare and get their breath back.

“I can’t believe you do this for a living, Enjolras,” Marius wheezes finally from his place on the floor.

The post-kill tension breaks. Enjolras laughs a little; Cosette smiles and hurries to her fallen hero’s side.

“Are you alright?” she asks, helping him to sit up. “I told you to stay behind me.”

“I’ll be fine,” Marius assures her. “Sorry about that. Instinct, or something.”

They all laugh at that, and Enjolras shakes his head.

That’s when the front door opens again.

“I’m home,” Courfeyrac, who is approximately five hours early, calls as he steps inside. “Worst luck, someone got sick at the bar, and of course Joly can’t be where sickness is, which makes me worry for his future in medicine, and Bossuet thought it’d be best if he took-”

He stops talking abruptly when his foot hits the bucket just inside the door, at which point he seems to notice that _something is amiss._ He looks into the living room and stares at the four of them, frozen in place and covered to varying degrees in red paint.

“Marius!” he exclaims, looking wounded. “You had a party without me?”

“I...what?” Marius manages.

“How could you, after everything I’ve- wait, is that Enjolras?”

Enjolras is looking at the ceiling with a sort of serene despair, as if silently imploring God to just beam him up now.

“Enjolras, how can you be here if- wait, _is that a dead body?_ ”

“So this kind of backfired,” Grantaire says to no one in particular.

“Maybe we should move into the kitchen,” Cosette says with a very calming smile, taking Courfeyrac by the shoulders and steering him from the room.

~

It takes them a few hours to, first of all, assure Courfeyrac that there isn’t a psychotic serial killer among them, and then to convince him that, yes, monsters exist and killing them, like the one currently lying on the living room floor, is actually kind of Enjolras’s job. Considering how easily he bought the witness protection story, Grantaire is sort of offended by his sudden scepticism.

During the time it takes for Courfeyrac to accept the reality of the situation, Cosette tends to Marius’s chest-wound – which turns out to be quite shallow –, ascertains that he is not suffering from concussion or any broken bones, and then starts making tea for them all. Halfway through she changes her mind and breaks out Courfeyrac’s not so secret stash of vodka instead. Everyone is grateful.

“I can’t decide if being, like, a vampire slayer is more or less cool than being in witness protection,” Courfeyrac says.

“I’m not a vampire slayer,” Enjolras replies.

“You do slay vampires,” Grantaire points out.

“Well, _yes,_ among other things.”

“Witness protection?” Marius says confusedly.

“Never mind,” Enjolras says.

“So let me go over this one more time,” Courfeyrac interjects, pouring himself a rather generous shot. “Some drunk guy in a graveyard told you that monsters are real, so you decided you were going to be all heroic and dedicate your life to fighting them. And _then_ you decided not to say a word about this to _anyone,_ and you figured that the best way to make sure that no one else decided to be as stupidly heroic as you was to take off without any warning and leave us all to assume that you’d met some gruesome end and were lying dead in a ditch somewhere.”

“Sounds about right,” Grantaire says lowly with a faint smirk, earning himself a scowl from Enjolras.

“Did you never think that maybe the best way to stop anyone you know from getting involved in this was _not to get involved in it yourself?_ ” Courfeyrac asks, draining his glass and slamming it pointedly back on the table.

“Uh-oh, he broke out the logic, now you’re in trouble.” Grantaire thinks Enjolras might actually hit him if he doesn’t shut up soon but it’s just so refreshing to be in a room with someone else who shares his feelings about Enjolras’s life choices.

“Now, now,” Cosette says. “If Enjolras had never become a hunter, that wraith could have ended up killing me or Marius or both. He was the first one to figure out what it was.”

That seems to take the wind out of Courfeyrac’s sails a little. In the end he just snorts and shakes his head.

“I think I always knew that, one day, you’d go off where I couldn’t follow,” he says. “I never imagined it happening exactly like _this,_ but...yeah.” He claps Enjolras on the shoulder. “You’re an idiot. And you’re brilliant. I missed you and if you ever pull something like this again, I’m going to dress up like a steak and go wander around the wilderness on a full moon night until a werewolf finds me. You’ve been warned. Are werewolves real?”

“Yes,” Enjolras replies. He’s trying not to smile but he’s failing quite badly. “You know I can’t stay here.”

“No, of course, you’ve got things to kill, I get it. But you have no excuse for not keeping in touch, now. I mean, cat’s out the bag, Enjolras. I know. Marius knows. You’re not going to put us in any additional danger by calling every so often to let us know you haven’t died.”

“But...” Enjolras starts but he is completely ignored.

“Furthermore, it’s totally unfair that Marius and I know but Joly and Bossuet are still being kept so cruelly in the dark,” Courfeyrac declares. “Therefore you also have no excuse for not coming out with us tomorrow night. Y’know, once Joly’s over his...thing.”

“Courfeyrac, this ‘below the radar’ job has been enough of a train-wreck as it is,” Enjolras says tiredly, pressing his fingers to his temples.

“Enjolras,” Cosette says smilingly. “My papa and I aren’t going anywhere, remember? If any monsters come sniffing around here, we’ll be ready.”

“And there’s Éponine, too,” Grantaire reminds him. “I’d say Lyon is one of the better-fortified cities when it comes to defending against the supernatural.”

“But they won’t always be in Lyon,” Enjolras says desperately. Grantaire groans.

“ _Enjolras,_ if you deny yourself absolutely everything, you’re going to end up bitter and twisted just like every other hunter I’ve ever encountered,” he says. “No offense to your dad, Cosette, I’m sure he’s a great guy.”

“He is. And he’s bitter, too,” she says.

“Alright, _fine_ ,” Enjolras grinds out. “I’ll...fine.”

Courfeyrac whoops in triumph.

“Just, at least tell Joly and Bossuet in advance,” Enjolras says. “I’m done with giving people heart attacks when they see me.”

“Of course,” Courfeyrac says. “But, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll leave it to you to explain to them where you’ve been these last three years.”

Enjolras just puts his head in his hands.

~

They have a few orders of business to take care of first, of course.

They get rid of the wraith’s body by cutting it up into manageable pieces and then taking those pieces to a secluded place and setting them on fire. The actual cutting up of the body ends up being left to Enjolras, Grantaire and Cosette because Marius and Courfeyrac look more inclined to vomit than actually provide any help.

They pay another visit to The ABC. They bring chocolate for Gavroche and a new friend for Éponine. She and Cosette shake hands, and Grantaire thinks any monsters in a hundred mile radius would do well to duck and cover.

They call Combeferre to update him on their progress.

“I think I owe you an apology,” Combeferre says as soon as he picks up the phone.

“You can assign us a new case any time now,” Enjolras says. “We’re done here.”

“Enjolras.”

“Also we have a new contact for you: Cosette Fauchelevent, she’s the daughter of an ex-hunter and she’s offered to help Éponine keep the peace around here.”

“That’s great. But-”

“Her father calls himself Valjean. You might want to see about getting the police completely off his case and-”

“Let the man speak,” Grantaire groans. “ _Please._ ”

Enjolras glares at him but falls silent.

“I won’t make excuses. I was wrong to doubt you,” Combeferre says, straightforward as ever in admitting his own failings. “I should have known that hunting in a place you have a personal connection to would only make you even more effective, not less. It won’t happen again.”

“Right.” Enjolras looks mightily uncomfortable. “Good. Okay.”

“I think that means he still loves you,” Grantaire puts in.

“Who asked you?” Enjolras snaps, while Combeferre just laughs.

Grantaire doesn’t accompany Enjolras when he goes to meet his friends, because he figures this is something for Enjolras alone, and he is not part of it. He does watch, though – through the window, from a safe distance – when Enjolras walks into the bar and they all look up and see him. Clearly, Courfeyrac did not actually forewarn Joly and Bossuet, because there is a lot of unmanly shrieking and so much hugging that Enjolras is nearly bowled over, and oh, he’s _laughing_ and his soul is warm and gold and filling the world with light, and he’s so beautiful.

Grantaire smiles and quickly flies back to the hotel. He decides that this is one thing he really shouldn’t intrude on.

Enjolras comes creeping into their room in the early hours of the morning.

“Don’t worry about tip-toeing,” Grantaire tells him, amused. “I’m awake.”

“Oh.” Enjolras finishes crossing the room with less stealth. He kicks off his shoes and collapses into bed fully clothed. He looks exhausted, but he’s happy. Grantaire can feel it radiating from him in gentle waves.

“You’ve had a good day,” he remarks. “Patched things up with Combeferre, reconciled with your civilian friends. You’re on fire.”

“Mmm,” Enjolras says into his pillow before turning his head to the side. “You should’ve come tonight. There were drinking games. You would’ve won.”

“I’m not sure whether to take that as a compliment or not,” Grantaire chuckles. “Did you win?”

“I didn’t play,” Enjolras replies, and Grantaire isn’t sure if he’s lying, or if he’s even really drunk or just tired.

There’s a lengthy silence – so lengthy, in fact, that Grantaire thinks Enjolras has fallen asleep, and jumps slightly when he suddenly speaks again.

“I thought you left, you know,” he says. “I didn’t think you’d come back.”

“What?” Grantaire raises an eyebrow. “When?”

“In Russia, that time.” Enjolras waves a hand at him impatiently, as if this should have been _obvious._ “You were angry at me.”

“Russia...? Oh, right. The ghost kids.” Grantaire hasn’t thought about that in a while. He isn’t even angry about it anymore; not now that he knows that Enjolras’s policy of nothing being above _the cause_ extends to even himself and his own happiness. That makes it something for him to be sad about, not angry. “What made you think of that?”

“Talking about patching things up,” Enjolras says, whatever that means.

“Right.”

“I woke up and you were gone.”

“I just went for a walk. I couldn’t sleep,” Grantaire lies. “I thought you were sleeping.”

“I really thought you weren’t coming back,” Enjolras says again. His voice is quiet and plaintive and Grantaire decides that he is both a little bit drunk and a big bit tired because otherwise they would not be talking about this.

“You thought you’d got rid of me, huh?” he says. “Were you relieved?”

“No,” Enjolras says almost petulantly. “Don’t do it again.”

“...Alright.” Grantaire is a little puzzled, but then, drunk people can be puzzling, as he well knows. “I won’t.”

“Okay.” Enjolras turns onto his other side, facing away from him, and promptly falls asleep.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Did something happen when I left you here yesterday? I was only gone for half an hour.”
> 
> “Nothing happened.”
> 
> “Then what?” Enjolras is becoming frustrated, impatient; he can’t bear to know that there’s something he doesn’t know. “This isn’t like you.”
> 
> Grantaire gives a startled laugh.
> 
> “This is exactly like me,” he says, because when has he ever done anything besides hide from the problems of Heaven and drink to try and forget?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've added 'Supernatural' as a fandom tag for this story because this chapter details some events that occur in Supernatural canon and also mentions a few characters.
> 
> On that note, this chapter contains SPOILERS for Supernatural seasons 4, 5, 6 and 7.
> 
> Also, the first of the Enjolras-POV scenes is coming along slowly and will be posted on my [tumblr](http://www.fivie.tumblr.com) as soon as it's done!
> 
> Enjoy!

 

 

~

 

Enjolras’s friends wave them off when they leave Lyon. Enjolras does his very best to look largely unmoved and just slightly mortified by them (especially Courfeyrac, who is blowing kisses) but Grantaire can see the sharp pangs of regret in his soul as their train pulls away from the station.

They go to Poland. They hunt a vengeful spirit. Enjolras is unusually glum; at first Grantaire thinks he is simply missing his old companions and the brief taste of normality he had when reunited with them, but in the end it turns out that, as usual, it’s all his fault.

“Lyon was a complete fiasco,” Enjolras says finally. “You ended up getting almost my entire life story and I still don’t know a thing about you.”

“That’s why you’re sulking?” Grantaire says, his lips stretching into a disbelieving smile.

“I’m not sulking,” Enjolras says. “It’s just not fair, that’s all.”

Grantaire looks at him for a long moment, torn between the pleasure of having his attention, his curiosity, and the _lies lies lies._

“I was a soldier,” he says finally. Enjolras blinks and looks up from his laptop.

“A soldier?” he repeats, and it’s _true,_ so does it matter if Enjolras naturally imagines tanks and machine guns instead of searing Grace and the wrath of Heaven raining down upon the Earth-?

“Yes.”

“French military?”

“No.”

“Where, then?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Grantaire evades, because he doesn’t want to lie. When this charade reaches its natural conclusion and he is dead and gone, he wants Enjolras to be able to look back and know that he was never truly lied to.

“Of course it matters.”

“No, it doesn’t. All armies are the same, when you get right down to it. A bunch of mindless drones following orders they don’t really understand, but which they nonetheless know in their hearts to be wrong.”

Enjolras is watching him carefully now.

“Wrong?” he repeats.

“I deserted,” Grantaire tells him bluntly, and that is true too. It’s strangely cathartic to say it out loud. It’s the first time he’s ever done so, he realises dimly. “The orders became too terrible. The whole operation was falling into chaos. The ones in charge forgot their duty and became power-hungry. Vicious. I couldn’t bear to be part of it. So I ran.” He pauses to take a strengthening swig from the flask which Enjolras had given him for holy water but which he finds much better use for. “Been running a long time.”

Enjolras considers this.

“It all sounds very corrupt,” he says at last. Grantaire laughs.

“That’s one way of putting it, yeah,” he replies.

“That’s good, though,” Enjolras says. “You didn’t give in to it.”

“Didn’t fix it, either,” Grantaire snorts. “Ran away and hid. Just got myself out. Not very brave soldierly behaviour.”

Enjolras makes a non-committal sound that somehow manages to convey that this is still more than he would have expected of Grantaire.

“Are they looking for you?” he asks.

“They think I’m dead. I made sure of that,” Grantaire says, and ironically, that’s the only reason he hasn’t been cut off from Heaven and the power of the Host. No sense in cutting off a fallen soldier. And as long as he doesn’t go performing any big flashy miracles – something that would require a great big chunk of Grace – it’ll hopefully stay that way.

“Hm,” Enjolras says, going back to whatever he was up to on his laptop. “Good.”

His face is carefully expressionless, but his soul is quietly pulsing with triumph and satisfaction.

They hunt a witch in Slovakia. Combeferre sends them up north; they hunt a changeling mother and her hideous brood in Denmark, then ghosts in three different towns across Finland. A string of bizarre murders in Estonia turns out to be ritual sacrifices to a resurgent minor pagan god, and Enjolras learns first-hand that Grantaire’s blade works on those too.

There is a two-month period where Combeferre has no jobs to give them. He has rooms rented all over Paris for idle hunters in such a situation, and Grantaire just thinks it makes a nice change from hotels, but Enjolras feels useless and twitchy with inactivity and spends the whole time in a state of agitation. He can probably sense that, actually, there are plenty of jobs out there, and this is just Combeferre forcing him to take a break.

Grantaire buys paint and tries to put Enjolras on paper and canvas, but no colours are bright enough and in the end he gives up, tears up all the failed attempts and goes to the Musain, enjoying the opportunity to go there to drink instead of for a case briefing. He’s careful to make sure that no one notices the exact volume of his alcohol intake, but in the end it doesn’t matter, because Enjolras shows up and drags him out the door before he can even consider getting properly plastered. It’s the first time Enjolras has come looking for him, and it’s probably just because he feels he needs to save _someone_ during this period of enforced inactivity, but it makes Grantaire very happy, because he loves Enjolras, and Enjolras can never love him back but, as it turns out, he doesn’t want Grantaire to drink himself to death, and that’s lovely.

Enjolras shouts at him and it’s something about appearances and how no one is going to think they’re an efficient team if they see Grantaire staggering around drunk and his face is flushed and his soul is on fire and he’s so very beautiful. It worries Grantaire just how often he thinks those exact words. He thinks it’s a shame that his artistic talent, stolen or otherwise, isn’t enough to capture all that light and fire and beauty.

Combeferre eventually realises that this period of ‘rest’ is actually becoming more stressful for both of them than any hunt could ever be. He relents and packs them off to the south of Spain to hunt a poltergeist, which they do, and in record time, such is Enjolras’s enthusiasm about being back in the field.

They’re still there when _it_ happens.

Grantaire cannot hazard a guess as to what _it_ actually is.

First, there is a strange and terrible sound. It reminds him of a piece of fabric _ripping,_ but so much louder, so much _worse._ Enjolras does not hear it, doesn’t wince as the juddering vibration of it cuts the air, and that makes Grantaire worry because that means it’s not a natural sound; it’s something only he can hear and that usually means it’s something potentially catastrophic.

(After all the last time there was a terrible sound only he could hear, it was Lucifer’s cage breaking open and unleashing his less-than-pleasant older brother upon the Earth.)

He doesn’t have much time to ponder the worrying sound, however, because very shortly afterwards a rather more pressing incident occurs and sends its shockwaves around from the other side of the world to assault his whole being: the archangel Raphael dies.

It’s sudden and explosive and makes him wince and clutch his head. The destruction of an archangel’s Grace is impossible to ignore, and he shouldn’t _know_ that but he does because he felt Gabriel die two years ago and _how are the archangels dying, how can that **be?**_

Enjolras looks at him oddly, because Enjolras doesn’t know that the most powerful remaining angel in Heaven just expired. Grantaire mutters something about a headache.

“Well, that won’t help,” Enjolras says when Grantaire starts fumbling for his flask.

“No, but it won’t hurt either,” he replies, draining it dry.

He never held any especial love for Raphael, who was always cold, pedantic and disdainful even before such things became fashionable among angels, but of course the inborn, automatically-programmed love is still there, whether he wants it or not, and the death is a shock, at the very least. It leaves him stunned and dazed.

In hindsight, he realises that he was supremely stupid to think that would be the worst part of his day, because when does he ever catch a break?

Not much later, he’s sitting in their hotel room, distracting himself with some abysmal game show on the small and ancient television set while Enjolras is elsewhere, making a private phone-call to Combeferre or perhaps Courfeyrac, who had demanded regular updates in exchange for him not calling Enjolras’s parents and giving them his number. It’s early evening, and it is June, so it’s warm and slightly sticky even with the room’s clunky AC running. It’s quiet; they’re in a tiny town, and the sound of crickets outside the window almost completely drowns out the noises of distant traffic.

And suddenly, his head is full of screaming.

Very loud, terrified and very _brief_ screaming. He flinches but it’s barely a second before the terrible cacophony is cut off cleanly, and the ensuing silence is a thousand times worse.

His connection to Heaven is tenuous at best. It’s safer that way. He doesn’t tune into the communication frequencies – why would he? – and he uses the bare minimum of his Grace; keeps his head down. They think he’s dead, and so much the better.

But he _is_ still connected, those mysterious threads that link all his brothers and sisters together in one big spiders-web are still coiled around his very core, and so he hears their piercing screams and he feels it when, without warning, they are snuffed out in their thousands like so many candles in the face of a hurricane.

Distantly, he is glad that the connection is so weak. If it were at full strength, he thinks he would have screamed too.

His whole body jerks violently with the shock of it. It hurts, it aches. Something just killed thousands of angels, wiped them out in one fell swoop, and he can _feel it_ , and _what could do that, what in all of creation could **do that?**_

He trembles.

He flies.

The communication frequencies _erupt_ and he can hear the panicked, garbled shouting of those still alive despite not actively trying to listen in. There is sound and image and _oh no_ he sees it, someone saw and they are transmitting the image en masse, he sees a garden with a wide expanse of grass stained almost totally black with the ashy imprints of dead angels’ wings, and there’s a single kite fluttering in the sky and _what?_

They’re whispering now, frightened and awed, and they’re talking about a new God, who has risen up and visited his wrath upon the unworthy of Heaven, and Grantaire tries to shut them out because there is no God, not anymore, and he doesn’t want to hear about any monster committing mass murder of his kind under a false name like that.

He doesn’t think there’s enough alcohol on the planet to blot out this kind of horror, but that doesn’t mean he can’t try. He can raise a glass – or a bottle – to every last one of his dead siblings.

It’s the first time he forgets about Enjolras. He doesn’t think that Enjolras will come back to the hotel and find him gone and maybe find that a little concerning. There is only one bar within walking distance of their hotel and Enjolras might look for him there, but he isn’t there, he flew far away without thinking and staggered into the first place he found, and his glowing, golden human is far from his mind.

It takes far too long for the alcohol to start affecting his vessel, fuzzing the edges of his mind and throwing a thin cloak over his human senses. It can’t touch his inhuman core, though, and it still cries out in agony, and he can’t even imagine how much he’d have to drink to drown it out. And whatever small relief he finds, it won’t last, it _never_ lasts; already he can feel his Grace burning up the alcohol in his blood, recognising it for the poison it is and seeking to purge it from him.

He keeps drinking.

He knows other angels have been walking the Earth for the last few years. 2008, they touched down. He felt it. He _heard_ it. That was the first time a brother’s cry had resonated within him despite his best efforts to remain deaf to them all.

_“Dean Winchester is saved!”_

Well, whoop-dee-doo for Dean Winchester, whoever he was. His rescue seemed to spark an utter shitstorm. Angels on Earth for the first time in centuries, seals being broken left, right and centre. Oh, and a rather half-hearted attempt at an Apocalypse. Grantaire admits that one had startled him. For a while he’d thought it was all really going to end, and maybe he could finally just _burn_ and be at peace, but in the end it had all come to nothing. Like everything else.

He’d felt it when those angels on Earth – all in North America, because it was _always_ North America for whatever reason, but even that was uncomfortably close compared to them being on another plane entirely – died, one by one. The first had been a shock. But then, there was a sort-of Apocalypse going on. Big brother Lucifer was walking among men. Circumstances seemed to be unpleasantly conducive to the killing of angels.

He kept his distance. He let them die in an anonymous flash of Grace; he turned away and did not see. He didn’t want to see, didn’t want to know if it was a brother or sister he’d once held a particular fondness for. The only one he’d felt distinctly was Gabriel, and that hadn’t been a matter of choice.

Heaven is dying, he thinks bleakly. It started rotting from the inside out a long time ago, and now it’s just dying.

It’s late at night by the time it occurs to him to return to that tiny town in the south of Spain. He retains the presence of mind to fly to a discreet location and then walk back to the hotel. A good thing, too, because Enjolras sees him coming from their window and comes storming out to meet him.

“Where have you been?” he demands, furious. “You can’t just take off without a word, how was I supposed to know if you’d gone off to drink yourself stupid or if something had _happened?_ ”

“You’re not my mother,” Grantaire says, because he can’t tell him the truth, he can’t say that a sizeable chunk of his family seems to have been vaporised, and so naturally the only solution is to be snarky and evasive.

Enjolras clearly thinks that remark was too petty to merit any kind of reply.

“Get inside,” he snaps instead.

“No,” Grantaire replies, because the thought of that hotel room suddenly fills him with horrible claustrophobia. For a long time he’s been able to pretend that he fits within this tiny human skin, but today has been one long, painful reminder of what he really is, and for the first time in a long time he wants to reach beyond his vessel, wants to spread his wings properly and be free of the disguise, but he can’t, he _can’t._

“No?” Enjolras repeats in obvious disbelief. He’s not used to Grantaire denying him much and, well, he probably can’t understand why anyone would want to hang out in the hotel’s parking lot rather than in their room.

“No,” Grantaire affirms, sitting down and leaning back against some stranger’s car. Luckily no alarm goes off.

“Grantaire, you can’t just sit out here,” Enjolras says. He sounds impatient and irritated, but his real anger is quickly fading and being replaced by uneasy confusion, because this is strange behaviour, even for Grantaire.

Grantaire just hums vaguely. He’s looking at the stars overhead. He half-expects them to start going out, too, because why not? Heaven’s falling out of the sky, Earth is as messed-up as ever, why shouldn’t everything just start unravelling completely?

Enjolras huffs in annoyance and leaves. To Grantaire’s surprise, he reappears a few moments later, with a bottle of water fresh from the hotel’s chilled vending machine.

“Sober up,” he orders, shoving the bottle in Grantaire’s direction.

“You don’t know much about alcohol, do you?” Grantaire says, but he takes it anyway.

“Just don’t choke or anything,” Enjolras mutters, and it’s suddenly unbearable that he is an _angel,_ meant for such great things, and here is a human looking at him like he is utterly pathetic. But then he remembers what it means to be an angel, he remembers what angels _do,_ and he wilts.

It was better in the beginning, he thinks sadly. _He_ was better in the beginning.

“I wasn’t always _like_ this, you know,” he mumbles, because he wants Enjolras to understand, somehow, that he had purpose once, too. That, once upon a time, he also burned bright.

“You weren’t always a self-pitying drunkard?” Enjolras says. Grantaire hardly hears him.

“I used to believe,” he goes on, still staring up at the stars above them. He does this less frequently these days, since he has his very own star to watch. “The faith I had back then, it was beyond anything you could ever imagine.”

“I resent that,” Enjolras says, but his voice is milder. “What did you believe in, then, long ago?”

_My Father. My family. The idea that everything could be_ good.

“God,” Grantaire replies.

“God?”

“Yeah.” Grantaire keeps his eyes fixed on the sky, but it’s with anger, not admiration, because He isn’t up there. He isn’t anywhere. “I really thought He was here. And even if we never saw Him, I believed that He was at least watching. I thought that we were safe, and everything would always be alright, because He was looking after it all. But then...”

“...Then?” Enjolras prompts. Grantaire tears his gaze away from the night sky to look at him instead, and wonders how he could ever put it into words, even if Enjolras did know the truth about what he is. Humans are so fleeting, in the grand scale of things. How could he ever make one of them understand what it had been like; the endless millennia without word from his Father, while the archangels – the most beautiful and holy of them all, the ones created to _love the most_ – turned bitter and power-mad and began to claw at each other’s throats? It would be unfair to expect Enjolras to even imagine it – how an empty hopelessness had wormed its way into his core as he watched the fierce brilliance of Heaven turn cold and grey and steely, as one by one his brothers and sisters forgot the love and joy with which they had been created and began to sneer at the Earth below, and most of all at the humans, so beloved of their absent Father. Heaven became twisted beyond all recognition, and to protest was to incur the wrath of the most warped angels of all; the ones who would scritch-scratch their way into your mind and scrub it blank until you were suitable to be a pawn in their endless war-games again.

The only escape was to run away and pray they didn’t catch you.

And the only reward for succeeding was eternity without a family or a home.

And now this; now there are no archangels left – Michael and Lucifer aren’t _dead,_ he’d have noticed that, but they certainly aren’t anywhere in Heaven or on Earth – and his brothers and sisters are being exterminated in their droves like vermin.

He loves Enjolras, admires and respects him, but Enjolras could never understand how that feels.

“I stopped believing,” he says finally.

“You woke up one day and decided you didn’t believe in God anymore?” Enjolras asks, quirking an eyebrow. To Grantaire’s unending surprise, he sits down next to him. “What, just like that? Come on. I’m having a hard enough time imagining you as a God-fearing man. At least explain what created the hopeless cynic I see before me.”

His words are as unkind as ever, but his tone is gentler than Grantaire is used to. He isn’t sure quite what to make of it.

“I didn’t stop believing in His existence,” he says slowly. “There are certain things I still believe to be true. That He created the Heavens and the Earth, and all that.”

“But?”

“But I don’t think He’s here anymore.” He shrugs, as if it doesn’t matter, as if the _why_ of it hasn’t been tearing him apart for centuries. “I don’t think He’s been watching over us for a long time. He finished creating, and He left.”

“Why would you just decide that?” Enjolras asks. He’s half-smiling, as though he simply finds this slightly strange but amusing. Grantaire can see the swirls of colour in his soul, though: he’s curious, and he’s troubled.

“Because I’ve seen things,” he says. He’s a little shocked to hear his voice tremble; he’s more shocked to feel his eyes wet. “Things that no God would ever allow to happen to the children He’s supposed to love.”

He hears Enjolras hum softly, turning this over in that quick but still very human brain of his.

“I always wondered if you’d seen something terrible,” he says after a moment. “You have that...look to you, after too much drink. I won’t ask what it was.”

Grantaire wasn’t aware he had any sort of look to him. He wonders what Enjolras sees when he deigns to look at him while he has a bottle in his hand. And he thinks about the physical age of his vessel and does some quick calculations, trying to guess which human atrocities in recent history Enjolras probably thinks he was witness to. He can’t know that Grantaire has seen all of them. Every single horror since the dawn of their species, and the horrors only get _worse_ as their technology improves and their imaginations and hatred grow-

“I think you’re wrong, though,” Enjolras goes on suddenly. “To stop believing because of it.”

“Of course you do,” Grantaire snorts.

“I don’t say so out of any faith of my own,” Enjolras says. “I’ve never had much time for higher powers; what’s important to me is what I see in front of me. I just think your logic is wrong.”

“Go ahead, then. Out-logic me,” Grantaire says with a watery laugh. Because it’s funny, isn’t it? A human picking apart an angel’s thoughts about God.

“The fact that terrible things happen doesn’t mean that your God is gone,” Enjolras says. “It just means that He isn’t interfering in our affairs.”

“You’re suggesting that He just doesn’t care?”

“No.” Enjolras sounds a little exasperated. “Grantaire, what would be the sense in God creating humankind and giving us free will if he was then going to influence us at every turn? That would make the Earth nothing more than a giant doll’s house, with all the people being moved around as He sees fit. It would be wrong, and it would be pointless. People who believe call Him our Father. And that makes sense, I think. All parents have to let their children go. If there is a God, and He’s watching, I’m sure He cares, and I’m sure our crimes wound Him. But we are not playthings. For better or for worse, He has to let us move forward on our own.”

Grantaire stares at him; at his glowing soul and earnest eyes and determinedly set mouth, and he has to fight the urge to drag him close and kiss him soundly, to love him in the way humans understand best.

“I wish I could believe the way you do,” he manages to say at length. “Even when all the facts seem to point to an unhappy answer, you still find some glorious, optimistic alternative.”

“It’s only logical,” Enjolras says, turning his face away. Grantaire would have thought he imagined his blush, if not for the rosy flare in his soul, too. “I suppose you’d rather believe in nothing than be logical?”

“It’s alright. I don’t need God anymore,” Grantaire says. “I have you.”

“I’m sure He’d be delighted to know that you consider me a suitable substitute,” Enjolras mutters, and, despite the day’s traumas, Grantaire is faintly delighted to see that pink stain in his soul spread and darken.

“Take up my sword,” he says with a sage nod. “And with it, you shall perform my miracles.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how it goes,” Enjolras says in his best you’re-so-irritating voice, but against all odds he’s smiling, and Grantaire can’t help it: he loves him with all his being.

He thinks that, maybe, he could be happy, just like this, until either he dies or the universe takes that one last step and collapses in on itself.

But not tonight. He can’t be happy tonight.

~

Enjolras gets him inside eventually. Grantaire lies on his bed and stares at nothing and wishes, for once, that he could sleep. He thinks humans are lucky, that they have that opportunity to escape the noise of their own minds for a while.

He can feel Enjolras watching him and wondering, but in the end Enjolras sleeps, because he is human and has that privilege. Grantaire is left with nothing to do but lie in the darkness and know that what was once his home is crumbling and that he isn’t brave enough to go back and show his face there to find out what happened. He wants to fly but he told Enjolras that he wouldn’t leave in the dead of night again. So he stays. He tries to stay halfway sane by focusing only on the sound of Enjolras’s steady breathing.

He’s not much better the next morning. Enjolras notices, of course.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asks, and his voice is clipped and sharp but that’s because he’s now getting worried that something might be seriously wrong. Grantaire knows because his soul gives him away. He imagines that other humans must have a very hard time interpreting Enjolras.

“Nothing,” he replies.

“Did something happen when I left you here yesterday?” Enjolras persists. “I was only gone for half an hour.”

“Nothing happened.”

“Then _what?_ ” Enjolras is becoming frustrated, impatient; he can’t bear to know that there’s something he doesn’t know. “This isn’t like you.”

Grantaire gives a startled laugh.

“This is exactly like me,” he says, because when has he ever done anything besides hide from the problems of Heaven and drink to try and forget?

They stay in Spain a few more days, and then their next case takes them to Ukraine. During the time it takes them to get there, Grantaire doesn’t stir from his dismal lethargy. When they are settled in yet another hotel in yet another city (where are they, anyway? Kharvic? He wasn’t even paying attention), Combeferre calls. Says there’s something going on in the US, and Grantaire tries not to laugh because wow, big surprise there. Enjolras asks what this has to do with them. Combeferre says that it’s made the international news, and that makes Enjolras sit up straight.

A few moments later and Enjolras’s laptop is being inundated with a combination of news reports and amateur video footage that Combeferre has siphoned from various sources. At first the news stories contain just your standard brand of crazy: some crackpot has stepped up and declared himself ‘the new God’.

Enjolras blinks when Grantaire suddenly joins him at the table, looking much less lackadaisical. He wants to see this.

That’s when the reports start moving towards _their_ kind of crazy: according to witnesses, this guy strolled into a church, killed the preacher without ever laying a hand on him, completely transformed a stained glass window, and touched a pew and left it with a scorch-mark.

There’s no video evidence of any of this. But the Reverend of that church is undeniably dead. And there are photos of the stained glass window, and it’s no artistic interpretation of Jesus Christ that Grantaire has ever seen.

The reports only get bigger and crazier after that. Whoever – or whatever – this guy is, he’s disbanded the KKK (though, judging by the footage Combeferre managed to find, ‘dismembered’ might be a more appropriate word), he’s wiped out a bunch of New Age motivational speakers and, on a less violent but perhaps still more concerning note, he’s healing leper colonies in India.

“He’s not confined to the US?” Enjolras says, alarmed.

“It’s why I thought you should know,” Combeferre, still on the phone, says. “This could become our problem.”

“No, it can’t be the same thing. The reports are too close together. Nothing could get from North America to India that quickly.”

“Nothing that we know of,” Combeferre corrects.

Enjolras falls silent and lets the horrifying implications of that sentence sink in.

“What could do this?” he says finally, quietly, maybe just to himself. “Can there really be something we’ve never heard of that could be this powerful?”

Grantaire stares blankly at the shaky phone-camera footage of the ‘disbanding’ of the Ku Klux Klan, which is playing on a loop. It’s a little difficult to see through all the people running and screaming and occasionally exploding, but there is a figure at the epicentre of the chaos, clearly in control of the unfolding terror. To a human observer, he simply looks like a man; a little above average height, dark hair, a serious and sombre expression, dressed in an unspectacular suit and tan overcoat.

_Long time no see, Castiel,_ thinks Grantaire, who can see past the unassuming vessel.

His brother has become a monster – that is, if angels aren’t already monsters to start with. He is certainly not God. Powerful, yes, but in some unnatural, twisted, hideous way. Grantaire has to try not to physically recoil from the sight of his blackened, diseased-looking Grace. Whatever he did to attain this power, it’s slowly consuming him.

Grantaire remembers an upstanding soldier and a proud garrison captain, whose actions and decisions were always tempered by a compassion and respect for humankind rare among angels.

He wonders what happened.

He also wonders just how despicable it makes him to be just a tiny bit glad, amidst all the death and destruction, that another angel has fucked up even more than he has.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says suddenly. “Do you have any idea what we might be dealing with here?”

“None,” Grantaire replies, which is only slightly less succinct than ‘some kind of deformed souped-up angel’. “But if it ever comes our way, let’s just hope that blade of mine can kill it.”

~

They do not encounter Castiel while they are in Ukraine. He’s far too busy killing corrupt religious leaders in various other places around the world.

They don’t encounter anything else in Ukraine, either. The case turns out to be nothing, and maybe that’s for the best, because Grantaire still isn’t feeling much in the mood for killing things.

He doesn’t know if it’s the daunting thought of the crazy God-monster currently devastating the globe or the double frustration of not only being unable to stop it but also having nothing to hunt in the meantime, but after a few days, Enjolras snaps.

“So you don’t want to tell me what’s wrong. Fine. That’s fine.” He’s standing over Grantaire’s bed, where he’s lounging miserably, as has become habit. Enjolras glares down at him. “Keep your secrets. Let it eat at you. It makes no difference what you do inside your head. But if you don’t get it together soon, I will leave you behind. You’re being useless, you’re not focused, you’ll get us both killed. I don’t need you like this.”

Grantaire hears his teeth click together as he snaps his jaw shut after that last sentence. He probably didn’t mean to say it. After all, that almost made it sound like, when Grantaire isn’t being an uncommunicative deadweight, Enjolras _does_ need him.

Grantaire stares up at him, dumbfounded. More astounding than that little slip of the tongue is the fact that, while Enjolras’s mouth is saying ‘you are being useless and I need you to not do that’, his soul is dim and wretched and full of almost child-like confusion, and it is saying _you are scaring me and I need you to stop it please please please stop it._

It’s a strange sort of moment for Grantaire.

Countless numbers of his brothers and sisters are dead, Heaven seems ready to just fall out of the sky, and one of his surviving siblings has gone nuclear and is dealing with the daddy issues they all have in the worst way possible.

But, on the other hand, Enjolras is very much alive, and apparently Enjolras needs him to be okay.

Maybe he can do that, then.

He gets up.

“Where are we going?” he asks.

Enjolras’s soul brightens almost instantly. So does his expression, for that matter, but he appears to be doing his utmost to fight that.

“Combeferre said he’d call soon with a case,” he says.

Combeferre does indeed call.

“I’m afraid it’s Romania again. The usual,” he says apologetically.

They both groan.

~

After they kill Dracula #12, they see one more video of the thing that calls itself God.

It’s a segment of security footage that Combeferre somehow got his tech-genius hands on. The quality is poor, and the video occasionally shorts out completely, as if the camera itself couldn’t even stand to bear witness to the unfolding events.

The short version: there is a campaign office full of people, and then there is a campaign office full of dead people.

It is Castiel’s vessel that turns and smiles at the camera, but it is not Castiel anymore. Grantaire knows angels, and that thing is not an angel. He doesn’t know what it is, which frightens him more than anything else, because that means that it is _older than him_ and, besides Death himself, Grantaire has never heard of anything that predates angels. There isn’t meant to be anything that old.

However, American hunters must be a resourceful and creative bunch. Either that or some immense higher power intervenes; Grantaire doesn’t know which. All he knows is that he hears another one of those tremendous _tearing_ noises, and then the new God is never heard from again. Combeferre is relieved; Enjolras feels, perhaps, a little cheated.

If Grantaire reaches out – very, very carefully, so as not to be detected himself – he finds he can still feel Castiel out there. Not a God-monster anymore, just an angel again.

He is curious, and in the end his curiosity wins out. During one of his morning coffee runs, he takes flight and goes to where he can feel Castiel’s Grace pulsing weakly.

He stays hidden. He finds his brother in a forest. His vessel’s coat is missing, the rest of his clothes are soaked. He looks dazed and lost and seems to be wandering with no destination in mind.

Why doesn’t he snap his fingers and dry off, Grantaire wonders. Why is he wandering around on foot when he could simply fly wherever he wants to go?

The obvious and only answer is that Castiel has forgotten that he can do those things.

As Grantaire watches, a woman – a very normal human woman – appears. At first she looks afraid of the strange dripping-wet man walking in circles, but then she sees that he looks more afraid of her, and she sends a kind smile his way.

Grantaire thinks he’ll be alright.

“You were gone a while,” Enjolras comments when he gets back to their hotel room.

“Yeah, sorry, there was a serious queue,” Grantaire says, plopping a caramel latte down in front of him.

“But everything’s okay?” Enjolras asks.

“Yeah,” Grantaire tells him. “Everything’s fine.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Let the man go, Grantaire,” Enjolras says.
> 
> “You sure?” Grantaire says. “Sounds to me like maybe he’s got more to say.”
> 
> “Let him go,” Enjolras repeats.
> 
> Grantaire shrugs and obeys, releasing the man’s collar and letting him slump back into his seat.
> 
> That’s when Enjolras throws the first punch, and all hell breaks loose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay! University started back and it's eating me alive D:
> 
> But! Exciting things!
> 
> The always-wonderful [whatisthecat](http://whatisthecat.tumblr.com) made more character photosets for this story!
> 
> [Cosette](http://whatisthecat.tumblr.com/post/60018415951/under-my-wings-you-will-find-refuge-les) | [Gavroche](http://whatisthecat.tumblr.com/post/60016641575/under-my-wings-you-will-find-refuge-les)
> 
> And the equally wonderful [iamawildgrantaire](http://iamawildgrantaire.tumblr.com) drew this story's [first ever fanart!](http://iamawildgrantaire.tumblr.com/post/60754128774/iamawildgrantaire-exr-in-the-spn-verse-go-and)
> 
> ...IT WOULD APPEAR SHE DREW ITS SECOND EVER FANART TOO OMG AAAAH why was I not informed of this I mean [LOOK AT IT](http://iamawildgrantaire.tumblr.com/post/62413339943/iamawildgrantaire-angsty-angel-r-from-under)
> 
> Everyone go look at their amazing stuff right now!
> 
> Also in case anyone doesn't know, there is now an ongoing [Enjolras!POV version of this story](http://archiveofourown.org/works/947292). The first (and, uh, currently only) chapter focuses on the time he spent with Courfeyrac and co. in Lyon, which I obviously didn't get a chance to write in the main story because, y'know, Grantaire wasn't there.
> 
> Okay! I hope you all like the new chapter!
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr!](http://www.fivie.tumblr.com)

 

 

 

 

~

 

Three months after the New God Fiasco finds Enjolras and Grantaire sprinting through a graveyard in the dead of night in the lovely little French commune of Dreux, because their first attempt at killing the zombie they’re hunting went pear-shaped and apparently this is Plan B.

“Is it just me or do we spend a lot of time running through cemeteries in the middle of the night?” Grantaire asks, doing his best to sound out of breath.

“Do you feel like _stopping?_ ” Enjolras replies just as their undead pursuer lets out a guttural, enraged screech.

“I’m just saying, we’re going to get a reputation,” Grantaire says. They reach a large stone plinth with a (highly inaccurate) statue of an angel on top and, without needing to exchange a word, they both duck behind it.

“A reputation for _what_?” Enjolras says, pulling out the handgun he brought along for skull-destroying purposes. “Multicultural necrophilia?”

Grantaire blinks at him, faintly astonished.

“Enjolras,” he says. “You made a joke!”

“ _Move!_ ” Enjolras barks at him as the zombie catches up to them and comes around the statue behind Grantaire. Enjolras shoves him hard to the side and Grantaire only just has time to remember to let himself fall – because being as immovable as the stone angel looming above them might be a little suspicious. He brought it on himself, he thinks gloomily as he makes a show of smacking his shoulder against the stone plinth and then falling to the ground. He sometimes forgets that Enjolras doesn’t know that he always knows exactly where the monster is and is therefore, among other reasons, never actually in any danger.

Meanwhile, Enjolras takes aim and fires three bullets into the zombie’s skull, which already has a deep graze along one side where his original shot went wide. The result is ugly and slightly explosive and there may or may not be small flecks of undead brain scattered all around them, but the thing is down, at the very least. Enjolras sucks in a deep breath and lets it out slowly.

“Really, I’m proud of you,” Grantaire says, pushing himself into a sitting position just to be slightly further away from the downed zombie. “You were almost funny.”

“You need to be more careful,” Enjolras says sternly.

“Don’t you think it’s unfair that these things run so fast?” Grantaire says, nudging the corpse with his foot. “Think how much easier life would be if all the movies were right and they just...shuffled.”

Enjolras sighs.

“Help me get him back in his grave,” he says finally, stowing the gun away.

They drag-carry the body back to the grave it crawled out of, and Enjolras produces an iron stake and stakes the guy in his coffin just to make doubly sure that he won’t try crawling out again. It takes them most of the night to fill the grave back in and make it look relatively normal and undisturbed.

“If I ever find out who it was that decided to try their hand at necromancy, I swear I’ll...” Enjolras mutters venomously as they finally trudge, muddy and with blistered hands, back to their hotel in the early hours of the morning.

“It’s only a little place, only about thirty thousand people,” Grantaire says, as they thankfully manage to get back to their room without being spotted. They left the shovels in the cemetery but their general appearance still seems to scream ‘recent grave desecration’. “I’m happy to wait here if you want to go question everyone in town.”

Enjolras just grumbles under his breath before calling first dibs on the shower. Grantaire doesn’t argue.

~

They’re only an hour or so from Paris, so they drop into the Musain in person for a change to pester Combeferre for another case. At least, that’s what Enjolras is there for. Grantaire heads straight for the bar.

Enjolras likes it when they can actually visit, because it gives him a better chance to look at all the cases Combeferre has heard about recently. Grantaire suspects that this is the one reason Combeferre _doesn’t_ like it when they visit, since he has his own mysterious but clearly very effective system for assigning cases and it probably messes things up to no end when Enjolras comes in and demands whichever one appeals to him most. Grantaire isn’t a hundred percent sure what Enjolras’s exact criteria is. The most heroic job, maybe. Or the most perilous. The one that will allow him to save the most people. The one that will make Grantaire wish he could just lock him in a cupboard and go smite the monsters himself.

He asks for whiskey.

He’s aware of Enjolras and Combeferre just out of the corner of his eye, at Combeferre’s habitual table next to the wall on which his enormous map of Europe is mounted, annotated with pinned-on photos and notes related to possible cases, all of which would be really hard to explain if a civilian ever wandered in here. Grantaire supposes they have preventative measures to stop that from happening. He isn’t paying attention to what they’re saying, instead choosing to rediscover his old hobby of listening to the conversations of the few other hunters in attendance that day. They aren’t a very lively bunch; mostly older men, haggard and scarred and dull-eyed, the type who hate the job and the life but bitterly soldier on anyway because they’ve got nothing else. Their souls are sludgy-grey-brown, without light or vibrancy, hearts turned cold. This type used to depress Grantaire in a distant sort of way, and he’d look at them with disinterested pity and consider them dismal justification of his decision to give up on humanity. Now the mere sight of them sends an icy chill through him. Is that all the future holds for Enjolras, despite all his fierce determination and maddening idealism? How long will it take for the grim reality to grind him down and suck the life out of him and snuff out all that blinding light-?

Grantaire drains his glass in one burning gulp and signals for a refill.

He knows the moment Enjolras leaves Combeferre’s table and crosses the room towards him. He always knows – he could recognise Enjolras’s footsteps from a mile away, and the approach of that hot-burning soul always fills him with something like relief. Still, he absorbs himself in studying the knotted wood of the bar until Enjolras taps his shoulder, at which point he looks up obligingly.

“You done?” he asks.

“For now.” Something is off – Enjolras’s neutral expression looks oddly schooled, and he isn’t meeting Grantaire’s eyes. “We’re going to be here a few days.”

“How come?”

“Combeferre thinks he has a case for us, but he wants time to gather more information before he sends us out.” And, wow, Enjolras is definitely lying, and Grantaire is sure he has a great reason for that so he won’t ask, but he can’t help but find it scientifically baffling that Enjolras can lie so perfectly to anonymous authority figures and yet fail so utterly when it’s anyone he actually knows. Grantaire remembers him saying that he isn’t very good at lying to Combeferre. He wonders if he should feel flattered, that he is apparently now the same in that regard.

“Yeah? Sounds to me like he’s slipping.” He glances briefly towards Combeferre, who looks every bit as studious and painfully well-organised as ever. “Where are we going, then, once we’ve got all the necessary data?”

“Amsterdam.”

“No way.” Grantaire grins at him. “It’s been a while since we’ve been somewhere fun.”

“Fun? You’re going to _hunt_ ,” grunts the bearded man two barstools down. “Not to get your little pricks wet in the damn red-light district.”

Grantaire sees Enjolras’s eyebrows go up minutely.

“Is that your idea of fun?” Grantaire asks with exaggerated surprise. “You dirty old man.”

The old hunter scowls at them, as if they were the ones who butted into his private conversation. The few others at the bar – probably friends of his – look up from their drinks too. Even Grantaire, who has perhaps more lax standards than most, thinks they all look pretty wasted for this time of day.

“Not that anyone asked you in the first place,” Grantaire goes on. “I forgot old bastards like you think everyone else should be just as miserable as you are.”

“Shut your fucking mouth, boy.”

“Or what?” It’s times like these that Grantaire wishes he’d picked an older vessel because there are few things worse than being perpetually in your mid-twenties and having guys like this think they can talk down to you.

“Call yourselves hunters?” the man mutters venomously, and this is kind of weird because Grantaire’s been surrounded by assholes like this since time immemorial but he doesn’t think one has ever tried to pick a fight with him before. “You don’t know the meaning of the word. It’s a game to smart-ass kids like you.”

“Yeah, yeah, young whippersnappers like us should respect our elders, I know.” Grantaire rolls his eyes and turns away, losing interest.

“Sir, I can assure you that the job is always our priority,” Enjolras puts in, and Grantaire realises that this was never about him and always about Enjolras when the old man rounds on him with a kind of vicious triumph in his eyes.

“Don’t you talk to me!” he orders, jabbing a finger in the general direction of Enjolras’s nose. Enjolras, to his credit, doesn’t flinch. “I know _you._ The stupid kid who thinks he’s God’s fucking gift. I was in here when you came prancing in for the first time. What was it, three, four years ago? Looking like some little girl who lost her way in the dark. I figure you’re only still alive because you can’t find anything to fucking hunt. And I’ve heard you in here, spewing your _crap_ about good and evil and saving the world. What planet do you live on? Don’t talk to me. You don’t belong here.”

He goes to take a satisfied sip of his beer, only to have the glass ripped from his hand, the contents thrown in his face and his collar seized.

“It sounds like you have some things to get off your chest,” Grantaire says pleasantly while the man splutters and Enjolras stares. The man’s friends get to their feet, and the barman watches them all nervously. The man in Grantaire’s grip gives a wheezy laugh.

“Yeah, that’s another thing,” he says. “At least the rest of us can fight our own damn battles. Travel alone, hunt alone. You needed to hire the fucking resident drunk here to be your bodyguard.”

“Let the man go, Grantaire,” Enjolras says.

“You sure?” Grantaire says. “Sounds to me like maybe he’s got more to say.”

“Let him go,” Enjolras repeats.

Grantaire shrugs and obeys, releasing the man’s collar and letting him slump back into his seat.

That’s when Enjolras throws the first punch, and all hell breaks loose.

Grantaire did not see that coming, but he rolls with it.

Some time later, it’s actually Combeferre who throws the final punch and brings the whole melee to an end. Grantaire, who has never seen Combeferre engage in any sort of violent physical activity, finds himself very impressed with his right hook, which knocks a man clean off his feet. Perhaps no one else there has ever seen Combeferre resort to violence before either, because everyone seems to freeze mid-brawl in shock.

“Enjolras, Grantaire,” Combeferre says curtly, shouldering his laptop bag and gathering up his mountainous pile of notes. “Let’s take this elsewhere.”

Neither of them argues. They’ve made their point, anyway. Enjolras’s nose is bloody and his lower lip is split and Grantaire allowed himself a few superficial injuries so as not to look suspicious, but they’re both looking pretty good compared to everyone else who decided to join the punch-up.

No one tries to stop them from leaving. They descend the stairs in ringing silence.

“...You shouldn’t take sides in this,” Enjolras mutters when they get outside. “They all need your help too.”

“Maybe. But not even I’m immune to a little favouritism,” Combeferre says with a faint smile, patting him on the shoulder.

They go to Combeferre’s flat because it’s closer than their hotel and they were getting some funny looks, wandering around Paris dripping blood from their faces and knuckles.

“So,” Grantaire says as he waits his turn at the bathroom sink, where Enjolras is currently washing his face. “What was that all about?”

“It’s nothing new,” Enjolras says. “They don’t like me. They never have.”

He states it factually, like it’s something that doesn’t bother him, but if there’s one thing Grantaire knows about humans, it’s that no one likes to be disliked. Enjolras’s soul is the mottled purple of a fresh bruise.

“Yeah, well, don’t you worry,” Grantaire says, pulling Enjolras’s hands away from the cut on his lip, which he’s poking at and only making worse. “The fucking resident drunk likes you just fine.”

“I’m sorry that they’ve decided that you are, by association, now deserving of their disdain,” Enjolras says. He pointedly doesn’t respond to the reassurance, but Grantaire sees the tiny, pleased flicker in his soul and has to work very hard to look like he isn’t secretly swelling with pride.

“You think I want the approval of guys like that anyway?” Grantaire snorts as he holds a wad of tissue under the tap before pressing it firmly to Enjolras’s bleeding mouth, all the time wishing he could just send the _tiniest_ burst of Grace through his fingertips to heal him. “I mean, his idea of fun in Amsterdam is the red-light district. That’s a city of culture, you know? What a barbarian.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes.

“They don’t understand you, is the issue, Enjolras,” Combeferre says, joining them in the small bathroom with a first aid kit. “Your motives don’t make sense to them. They’ve lost everything and they hunt out of spite. For them, killing is its own reward. You hunt to save people. To make a difference. They hate the world. It probably offends them that you want to save it.”

“Is that why Enjolras is your favourite?” Grantaire asks with a grin.

“There are plenty of reasons why Enjolras is my favourite. His ability to hold a decent conversation about things other than hunting is definitely one of them,” Combeferre says with a quiet laugh. “Alright, let’s see the damage.”

He checks the two of them over – because _of course_ Combeferre is absurdly knowledgeable about every kind of physical injury imaginable, it’s unthinkable that there’s any area of study he isn’t well-versed in – and eventually reaches the conclusion that they will both live, Enjolras’s nose isn’t broken, and none of their battle-wounds require stitches or serious medical attention.

“It’s fairly impressive, though,” he says as he dabs antiseptic on Enjolras’s grazed knuckles. “You two have gone your last four hunts with no serious injuries, and then you come back here and get yourselves beaten bloody.”

“Hey, considerably less bloody than the other guys,” Grantaire points out.

“I can’t even get my supposed allies to be on my side,” Enjolras says sullenly. “What a mess.”

“You’re not the problem,” Combeferre assures him. “Those guys, they’re of the old generation. They owe allegiance to no one. You’re young and optimistic and passionate. And that confuses them so much that they can’t help but hate it.”

_You burn too bright for them,_ Grantaire wants to say but he knows Enjolras wouldn’t understand. _They swamped themselves in the dark and you hurt their eyes._

“Anyway, they’re a minority,” Combeferre adds. He apparently deems them both suitably fixed up and starts packing away the medical kit.

“A loud and influential minority,” Enjolras says. Combeferre claps him on the shoulder again.

“Feuilly took one look at you and knew you’d be great,” he says. “Bahorel, too, though he’d rather poke pins in his eyes than tell you so. And you know I have every faith in you.”

“And Grantaire still thinks that an office job would have been a much better idea,” Grantaire puts in. “But I’ll admit you are disturbingly good at killing things.”

“You think I’m stupid,” Enjolras grumbles at him.

“How many times do I have to tell you?” Grantaire says. “You’re not stupid. You’re _ridiculous._ ”

“What does that make you?”

“Doubly ridiculous for following you around anyway.”

“Don’t quarrel, children,” Combeferre says with obvious amusement.

“I’m going back to the hotel,” Enjolras sighs, pushing himself off the bathroom counter. “Sorry if we caused you any trouble.”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Combeferre says. “They had it coming, really. Though you’ve never risen to their bait before. What was different about today?”

“Nothing,” Enjolras says just a little too quickly. “Just. No, nothing, really.”

“Okay.” Combeferre turns his face away so that Enjolras doesn’t see his smile, but Grantaire sees. “Like I said, they had it coming.”

“Right,” Enjolras mutters and then he’s gone, and in quite a hurry.

“Skittish today, isn’t he?” Grantaire comments.

“Don’t worry about it,” Combeferre says, still smiling that very enigmatic little smile.

“So you’re sending us to Amsterdam next, huh?” Grantaire asks because if Enjolras and Combeferre want to keep secrets, then that is exceptionally childish of them but no, whatever, it’s fine.

“Yes. It looks like some kind of spirit.”

“So was this your decision or Enjolras’s?”

“We reached a mutual agreement,” Combeferre says. “In the end.”

“How do you decide who you assign cases to, anyway?”

“There’s no hard and fast method to it,” Combeferre tells him. “All the hunters I know, they all have their strengths and weaknesses. There are certain monsters they’re each better suited to hunting.” His smile becomes slightly grim. “For example, I try my best to avoid ever sending Enjolras after a demon.”

“Why?” But really Grantaire already knows why; he pondered the question of why they never ran into demons quite early on in his and Enjolras’s travels – because it was one eventuality he hadn’t taken into consideration, and a demon would be quick to blow his cover – and it hadn’t taken him long to realise that it was something deliberate on Combeferre’s part, and he knows the reason.

“Because demons take human vessels, and it’s very hard to fight a demon without harming that vessel,” Combeferre says. “Enjolras would rather die than hurt an innocent person. He’d get himself killed.”

“Like a truly ridiculous idiot,” Grantaire says. “Are you sure he’s your favourite?”

“I’m sure.” Combeferre’s expression is fond again. “That little scene at the Musain aside, he’s been getting himself into much less trouble lately. By which I mean that, since you started travelling with him, I haven’t received a single dead-of-night phone-call from hospital staff with whom I have no common language asking if I’m willing to pay the medical bills of the young man bleeding all over their waiting room.”

“Must just be a fortuitous coincidence,” Grantaire says. He tries very hard to conceal the flare of protective fury that the image of Enjolras, alone and younger than he is now and injured due to his own ridiculousness, conjured in him. “If he’s finally learning to be more careful, that’s great, but that doesn’t sound like my influence.”

“Regardless,” Combeferre says, “I’m glad he’s got you with him.”

“He isn’t,” Grantaire replies cheerfully. Combeferre looks at him oddly for a moment before rolling his eyes skywards, and Grantaire isn’t quite sure how he’s meant to interpret that but he doesn’t ask.

“Are you going to need some back-up when you go back to the Musain?” he asks instead. Combeferre actually snorts.

“No,” he says. “Even the old-timers who choose not to utilise my services know that my system is good and that what I do is invaluable. If they started anything with me, they know they’d have a sizeable group of very angry, much younger and much more physically fit hunters to deal with. They don’t want that.”

Grantaire gives a short, surprised laugh.

“You’re actually kind of scary, you know that?” he says.

“I like to think so,” Combeferre says.

~

The next day, Enjolras and Grantaire don’t hear from Combeferre. Grantaire finds this highly suspicious, because he can’t think what could possibly be so unusual about this case that it would take _Combeferre_ more than twenty-four hours to collect enough information to be satisfied with, but he maintains his stance of not asking questions about it. He does, however, ask Enjolras who Bahorel is, because he likes the idea that Enjolras might have another friend in the hunting world but finds it strange that, were that the case, he’s never mentioned him before.

“What?” Enjolras looks up from his book with a blink when Grantaire asks the question out of the blue.

“When Combeferre was trying to convince you that not everyone wants to punch you in the face, he mentioned a Bahorel,” he elaborates. “Who’s that?”

“Oh. He’s a hunter.”

Grantaire waits for further information. The silence stretches out uncomfortably. Enjolras goes back to his book.

“Oh, come on,” Grantaire says finally. “There must be more to it than that.”

“Is this your strange obsession with people’s ‘stories’ again?” Enjolras asks without looking up.

“I’m curious. I mean, you don’t know a lot of people.”

“I don’t need a lot of people.”

“You’re making me more curious by not telling me,” Grantaire informs him, a sly smirk creeping over his face. “Now I think it’s something scandalous.”

“Seriously?”

“Was it a forbidden love affair?”

“A forbidden-? No!” Apparently he now has Enjolras’s attention, since this causes him to slam his book down on the table. “I swear, what _is it_ with people and dreaming up a love-life for me?”

Grantaire can’t help but throw his head back and laugh, and Enjolras pulls a sour face at him but it doesn’t make him stop any sooner.

“I’m sorry, I forgot you were on the phone to Courfeyrac this morning,” he says. “I’m sure he’s constantly reminding you of his disappointment that you’re not banging your way around Europe.” And he knows that because sometimes Enjolras will now complain to him – without any _real_ annoyance, in Grantaire’s opinion – about the nonsense Courfeyrac talks. And Grantaire loves that – he loves that Courfeyrac talks inane nonsense to Enjolras to break their dreary everyday routine of, you know, _killing things,_ and he loves that Enjolras will whine about it like a normal human being with normal human concerns. And he whines about it to _him,_ of all people. That’s maybe Grantaire’s favourite thing about it.

“I met Bahorel through Feuilly,” Enjolras says shortly, clearly calling time on any further discussion of his romantic inclinations, or lack thereof. “They worked together a lot.”

“You two apprenticed together?”

“No, Bahorel got into hunting a long time before me.”

“So where is he now? Does he come to the Musain?”

“I don’t know where he is.”

And, oh, that doesn’t sound good. Grantaire tilts his head over to one side in a silent question. Enjolras sighs.

“When Feuilly died, Bahorel was...there. I mean, he saw. They were working the case together,” he says, eyes downcast. “I haven’t seen him since the...well, I don’t know if you’d call it a funeral. Combeferre told me that he just didn’t want to hunt anymore, after that. Said he’d had enough.”

Grantaire nods because, yes, that’s understandable, and if Enjolras had any sense he’d have taken that as his cue to get out, too. But, of course, that’s much easier said than done. Not many people get out of hunting. Not really. He wonders how this Bahorel is doing, trying to carve out a normal life for himself after everything he’s seen and done, and especially after a presumably extended period of hunting during which he did not officially exist.

He thinks of Valjean, hiding down in Lyon, still looking over his shoulder for police officers who think he’s a killer on the loose, still afraid that anyone who comes into his house might be a monster out for revenge.

He wishes Enjolras could have a safe and normal life, and he tells him so often enough, but deep down he knows it’s already too late. He knows there’s no getting out.

“I think Combeferre still checks up on him from time to time,” Enjolras goes on. “But I haven’t seen him.”

“Are you angry that he quit?” Grantaire asks.

“Not really.” Enjolras looks a little puzzled. “I’d rather he stayed, of course, but it’s his choice, in the end.”

“So all that stuff about having a moral responsibility,” Grantaire says with a humourless smile. “All those rules only apply to you? What makes you so special?”

(He knows exactly what makes Enjolras so special, of course; he knows that it’s the most beautiful soul he’s ever seen, a bright, proud streak of golden flame that would never hold others to the same painful and exacting standards to which it holds itself. But he doesn’t think _Enjolras_ knows, or is even truly aware that he expects far too much of himself.)

“I...” Enjolras falters, frowns and looks away. “I don’t want to argue about this today.”

“That’s not like you,” Grantaire remarks.

“Talk about something else or stop talking,” Enjolras says, picking up his book again threateningly.

“What do you want to talk about?” Grantaire reaches across the table and pushes the book back down before Enjolras can bury his nose in it. “Our sight-seeing itinerary for Amsterdam?”

He’d really like to force the subject – to try, once again, to make Enjolras understand that he doesn’t have to push himself so very hard, that if he ever got sick of all the killing there would be no shame in it – but he can see that it’s making Enjolras’s normally fiery soul turn a despondent blue-grey and shrink in on itself. Maybe it’s the effect of recalling the loss of not one but two colleagues; he can’t be sure exactly. All Grantaire knows for sure is that it’s causing him no end of torment that he can’t stand up, go around to Enjolras’s side of the table and wrap him up in his arms, and coax the golden light back into his soul with touches and kisses and quiet words.

It’s not a new experience for him, to see unhappiness and know that he can’t cure it. He’s just never wanted to so badly before. He doesn’t think he ever experienced an _ache_ like this before Enjolras burst into his world and turned everything on its head.

The endless _wanting_ that comes with human love scares him a little. He’s not used to this bizarre desire to touch – finding solace with lips and hands and skin-on-skin is hardly what angels were made for.

But more powerful than this bewildering longing is the stinging knowledge that _he can never have that with Enjolras._ And so he supposes he’ll just have to annoy Enjolras’s dejection away instead.

As usual, it isn’t difficult. There’s already a small spark of yellow-orange irritation blooming amidst the smoky-blue.

“We won’t be doing any sight-seeing,” Enjolras snaps. “How many times do we need to go over this?”

“But it’s Amsterdam!” Grantaire says in the most irritating whine he can muster. “You can’t be in Amsterdam and not _see_ Amsterdam.”

“You say that about _every place we go to._ ”

“Not true. There was nothing I wanted to see in Lyon. That was on you.”

“We’re going to Amsterdam to work this case and then we’re leaving,” Enjolras says, and his voice is cross and his soul is spiky and barbed. “We’re not going to lose time because you want to drink yourself stupid, smoke yourself into a stupor and visit the red-light district.”

“Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of the, uh, Rijksmuseum. And, y’know, the various other places of cultural interest,” Grantaire says, amused.

“...Oh.” The irritation on Enjolras’s face and in his soul dies and is replaced by a faint pink.

“I wasn’t kidding when I said it’s a city of culture.”

“I- Sorry.”

“No you’re not, you’re just stunned that I want to waste time on something intellectual like art instead of plain old debauchery,” Grantaire teases, because he wants Enjolras to get mad, because he doesn’t understand why he’s flooding full of unhappy colours again.

“When we were in Bavaria, all you would talk about was Oktoberfest,” Enjolras mutters.

“And in Cologne it was the cathedral I wouldn’t shut up about,” Grantaire points out. “Give me some credit, Enjolras, I’m a man of eclectic tastes.”

“I know,” Enjolras says quickly, and if Grantaire was human and couldn’t tell for sure that Enjolras was himself right now, he’d be ready to splash him with holy water because he is not acting like himself. “I know, I didn’t mean to...”

“To imply that I’m a reprobate and a drunk?” Grantaire says. “Don’t worry, you’re not wrong about that.”

And he’s laughing and he’s still just teasing, and insults like that are like water off a duck’s back to him anyway, but Enjolras just looks progressively more wretched with every word he says.

“You’re not, though,” he mumbles. His face is red and his soul is just an indecipherable whirlwind of colours. “I mean, you certainly go out of your way to come across like that, but. You’re not. And I didn’t mean to sound like I think you are.”

Grantaire can’t help but just stare at him like he’s speaking some alien language.

“And I know you like art,” Enjolras adds when the silence starts to become excruciating.

“Are you feeling okay?” Grantaire asks him carefully. He can’t _see_ anything wrong with him but he still feels like he should ask. It earns him an instant scowl.

“I’m fine,” Enjolras says.

“You don’t sound like yourself today,” Grantaire insists. “Are you still stressing about those guys at the Musain yesterday?”

“No! I-” Enjolras cuts himself off and gets to his feet with a noise of frustration. “God. Why do you have to make it so _difficult?_ ”

“...Make what so difficult?” Grantaire dares to ask. He feels like this conversation somehow got away from him very quickly.

“Being nice!” Enjolras snaps just before he storms out the door.

~

They’re summoned to the Musain the next morning, which is really something of a relief, since Enjolras has been sulking up a storm ever since Grantaire apparently rebuked his attempt at cordiality. Or maybe that’s unfair. Grantaire might have been avoiding him a little. It seemed easier to just stay out of sight and out of mind until they can go back to their old dynamic – the one where Grantaire makes himself as aggravating as possible and Enjolras just sort of sighs and wonders what he ever did to deserve such a travelling companion. Because wanting Enjolras to like him isn’t the same as deserving it, and maybe the idea of it is tantalising but the possibility of it becoming reality is actually kind of frightening.

When they reach the top of the stairs in the Musain, Grantaire is vaguely aware that Combeferre is not alone at his table. He thinks nothing of this, assuming that it’s just another hunter looking for a case or for information – Combeferre’s bottomless well of knowledge is in high demand, after all. However, the stranger doesn’t move away even when Combeferre waves him and Enjolras over, and as they approach, Grantaire briefly takes stock of this newcomer; he sees that it is in fact a young man, perhaps even younger than Enjolras, with coppery curls clustered around his head and shoulders. He’s dressed in an interesting ensemble of lime-green jeans, a bright purple sweater and heavy, pink-on-black flower-patterned boots. All Grantaire can think is that such an explosion of colour must be coming as a shock to the other surly patrons of the Musain, where even Enjolras’s occasional splash of red tends to raise scurrilous eyebrows.

They are about eight steps from the table when this colourful boy turns around, and Grantaire stops dead in his tracks. Enjolras hardly notices and goes on without him.

The boy looks at Grantaire, and Grantaire looks back, and in the same instant they recognise each other for what they are. The boy’s eyes widen and his mouth falls open slightly. Grantaire’s mind shrieks a belated warning of _look out, that’s a psychic!_

That’s probably very bad.

Grantaire experiences a moment of heart-stopping terror – thinking _this is it,_ waiting to be denounced as not-human in a room full of hunters, right in front of Enjolras who has the only weapon that can kill him tucked inside his coat – but then, in a bizarre twist, the boy’s freckled face breaks into a delighted smile. For whatever reason, he seems to like what he sees.

Grantaire, amidst his confusion and tentative relief, supposes that means he’s the first angel the boy has ever laid eyes on, because he wouldn’t look nearly so happy if he’d ever encountered any of his siblings. For that matter, he probably wouldn’t have any eyes left if he’d ever encountered any of his siblings.

The boy’s grin is infectious and Grantaire can’t help but smile back at him before quickly pressing a finger to his own lips. _Don’t say anything._

The boy replies with a small but enthusiastic nod. _I won’t._

All this in a few seconds; Combeferre and Enjolras have barely finished saying hello to each other and are oblivious to the exchange.

“It’s good to see you again, Prouvaire,” Enjolras says, turning to the boy and holding out a hand to shake. He takes the offered hand but also, in true European style, leans up to peck a light kiss to each of Enjolras’s cheeks. Enjolras looks awkward but doesn’t fight it, suggesting that they’ve been here before.

“Good to see you too,” Prouvaire says brightly, still holding onto Enjolras’s hand. “But Enjolras, what have you done to your face? Was it a bad hunt?”

Enjolras says nothing, though he raises a hand absently as if to hide the scab on his lip and the various shades of purple and yellow doing battle for dominance of his face. His eyes shift to the side, as if to check if their bar-fighting opponents are here today. They aren’t, but Prouvaire seems to understand. Probably because, well, he’s a psychic.

“It’s okay,” he says. “It makes you look very rugged and tough.” His gaze slides towards Grantaire again. “But more importantly, it looks like you made a new friend on your travels. I feel neglected and replaced.”

“Oh, right.” Enjolras blinks. “This is Grantaire. He’s following me around Europe and making a nuisance of himself and sometimes helping on hunts.”

“Mostly the former,” Grantaire says, laughing. He too finds himself on the receiving end of a kiss to each side of his face, and although he considers it one of the loveliest of human greetings – far superior to the awkward show of dominance of the handshake – he thinks that, psychic or not, this boy must know absolutely nothing about angels to be so unafraid. “Are you telling me that Enjolras is cheating on you with me?”

“Jean Prouvaire is one of our on-call psychics,” Combeferre deftly puts in before Enjolras can retort. “He and Enjolras have worked cases together before.”

“And it looks like you’re stuck with me again, Enjolras,” Prouvaire says cheerfully. “Do you know I’ve never been to Amsterdam before? I’m pretty excited to see it.”

Grantaire has to fight down a laugh because he can _see_ Enjolras wanting to repeat his usual mantra of ‘we’re going to hunt not to admire the scenery’ but holding it in because it’s Prouvaire he’s talking to and not Grantaire.

“What are we hunting?” he asks Combeferre instead of telling Prouvaire about the many places of interest in Amsterdam just to be annoying. “Something new? You’ve never given us our very own psychic before.”

“I can’t be one hundred percent sure as to exactly what it is,” Combeferre says, tapping away furiously at his laptop. “Definitely a spirit of some kind. People are reporting cold spots, strange noises, interference with electrical devices. The tourism board is loving it. They’re arranging special night-time ghost tours.”

“Great.” Grantaire grimaces.

“A really clever plan, I know. A good way to get a lot of people hurt,” Combeferre says with a nod. “Except, bizarrely, no one’s been hurt yet.”

“That’s what you’ve got me for,” Prouvaire pipes up. “If it’s a spirit that doesn’t want to hurt anyone, there’s no harm in trying diplomacy instead of just jumping straight to the salting-and-burning, right?”

“You’re our ghost-negotiator?” Grantaire says.

“Exactly!” Prouvaire is smiling at him again, and it’s such a _sunny_ smile, and Enjolras looks a little puzzled by it. “And you two are my hired guns. In case it actually does turn out to be a vengeful spirit.”

“Your train leaves in a few hours,” Combeferre says, handing Enjolras an important-looking folder of papers – presumably what information he has managed to gather about the case. “If you two have any preparations to make, you should probably make them now.”

“We just need to collect our things from the hotel,” Enjolras says. “We’ll meet you at the station, Prouvaire?”

“Sure.” He nods happily. “I wanted to go for a walk around Paris anyway. It’s been a while.”

“It was nice to meet you, Ghost-Negotiator Jean Prouvaire,” Grantaire says, which earns him a laugh.

“It’s Jehan,” he tells him. “I think you need reminding of that too, Enjolras. I don’t like it when you’re so formal with me. Are we not friends anymore? Is it because you made a new friend?”

“Of course not,” Enjolras says. Even he doesn’t seem to be immune to the contagious power of Jehan’s smile. “Sorry, Jehan.”

“That’s better,” he says, looking satisfied.

Enjolras’s smile fades as he and Grantaire descend the stairs again.

“He seemed _really pleased_ to meet you,” he says, shaking his head.

“Is that so surprising?” Grantaire asks with a short laugh.

“Yes,” Enjolras says immediately before flushing. “No, what I mean is that he’s normally very shy around new people.”

“Yeah?”

“He wouldn’t even look me in the eye at first.”

“You are pretty scary.”

“And it was definitely a while before he was ‘Jehan’ to me.”

“Guess that makes me special,” Grantaire says – and a scary human Enjolras may be, but how a psychic could find him scarier than _something not human_ is quite beyond him and it’s something he’s going to have to ask about later.

“I guess so,” Enjolras says doubtfully.

~

If Enjolras has the most glorious soul Grantaire has ever seen, Jean Prouvaire has the sweetest. Grantaire watches it silently during the train journey, since they seem to have an unspoken agreement that they will _talk_ after they get to Amsterdam and can be alone. At rest, it settles to a soft, pale blue and emanates a warm, buttery light, like a midday sky on a sunny day. It’s the soul of a poet and a thinker and one who just feels a whole lot about absolutely everything. Grantaire can easily see how it could change in the blink of an eye, becoming dark and stormy or cloudy-grey and despondent or joyfully lighting up with bright colours like fireworks. It’s sensitive and it’s loving, but in a quieter and more thoughtful way than the scorching and almost angry love that drives Enjolras on his quest to save the world and all who live in it.

He watches while Jehan chats animatedly about everything and nothing to Enjolras, who had been trying to read the case notes Combeferre had provided but has now clearly given up and is giving Jehan his full attention. Grantaire finds no small measure of amusement in this, since whenever he wants to talk and Enjolras wants to read, he gets told to shut up. It’s funny to see Enjolras being forced to act in a socially acceptable way for a change. He’s doing quite admirably; it’s clear that he likes Jehan and wouldn’t dream of snapping at him. Enjolras probably wouldn’t dream of snapping at most people. Grantaire just goes out of his way to make himself deserve it.

Grantaire had noticed, distantly, that Enjolras did not seem particularly surprised to see Jehan at the Musain, but he hadn’t had much time to wonder about it at the time: he’d been too busy either panicking that his cover was about to be blown or feeling smug that Combeferre apparently disagreed with Enjolras’s policy of indiscriminate hunting and had assigned them a psychic to mediate with the possibly-not-vengeful spirit. And all that is far from his mind now; his sole concern is the very interesting conversation he and Jean Prouvaire are going to have once they get off this train and are out of earshot of Enjolras. He’s not entirely sure he’s looking forward to it.

They change trains at Frankfurt. They manage to procure two sets of seats facing each other across a small table; Jehan sits next to Enjolras whilst Grantaire sits opposite them, and a few hours before Amsterdam Jehan falls asleep with his head on Enjolras’s shoulder. Enjolras does not appear surprised or bothered by this, though he does shoot Grantaire a _look,_ as if daring him to laugh. Grantaire hadn’t been planning to laugh; if anything he has to fight the urge to coo. And he’s _happy_ – even if Jean Prouvaire is inconveniently a psychic who can see past his human vessel, he is another person that Enjolras trusts and likes enough to let him distract him from his work and sleep half on top of him, and Grantaire is of the opinion that Enjolras can’t have too many people like that in his life.

Enjolras nudges Jehan awake when they reach Amsterdam. They grab their bags and stumble off the train and up the escalator into the airport and then outside and onto a bus. They’re staying in a hotel on Vossiusstraat, which they find after some wandering, and it’s even more basic than what they’re used to but it has a nice view of the Vondelpark. Combeferre booked two rooms for them – one for Enjolras and Grantaire to share like always, and one for Jehan. It’s late by the time they check in, and even Enjolras appears to have sleep on his mind.

“I’ll see you two in the morning,” Jehan says as they reach his door.

As they bid him goodnight, his eyes briefly lock with Grantaire’s. In that fleeting second, two very sharp images lodge themselves in his mind in quick succession: first, the nearby gate to the Vondelpark, and second, a clock reading 6.00AM.

It’s an instruction, and a pretty clear one. _Be there._


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oo-oh, yes. Enjolras doesn’t know.” Jehan nods as if he only just remembered this. “Why doesn’t he know?”
> 
> “If he knew, he’d kill me.”
> 
> “Would he?” Jehan outright laughs at that, and Grantaire isn’t sure why it’s so funny. “And it’s a secret because you don’t want him to kill you?”
> 
> “Only sometimes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! (Again.)
> 
> Look at all these exciting things though!
> 
> [Amazing photoset for the story by anneretic!](http://www.anneretic.tumblr.com/post/64643319938/let-me-come-with-you-its-not-smart-to-go-around)
> 
> [Angel!Grantaire](http://www.unhooking-the-stars.tumblr.com/post/64349669853/angel-r-from-fivies-under-my-wings-you-will-find) and [hunter!Enjolras](http://www.unhooking-the-stars.tumblr.com/post/62966326554/the-coat-is-red-its-like-a-warning-enjolras) and [hunters!Bahorel and Feuilly](http://www.unhooking-the-stars.tumblr.com/post/62939355976/uh-well-i-read-a-fantastic-supernatural-au-under) by unhooking-the-stars!
> 
> [Chapter 7 art by tinyeuphemism!](http://www.tinyeuphemism.tumblr.com/post/62577108653/it-is-nearly-impossible-to-find-good-les-mis-fic)
> 
> There are no words for how much I love all of these aaaaaaaaaah <3
> 
> I'm sorry I did so dreadfully at replying to comments last chapter - I was _insanely busy_ and thought the little free time I did have should be used for writing this chapter. But I feel horrible. I'll try not to suck so much.
> 
> Currently working on the new chapter for _I Will Fear No Evil_ too!
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr!](http://www.fivie.tumblr.com)

 

 

~

 

Six AM the next morning seems to take a long time to come. The hotel room is very small, with an uncomfortably narrow space between the two single beds, and Grantaire would much prefer to just wait in the Vondelpark all night, but Enjolras might wake up and notice him missing again, and he didn’t take too kindly to that last time. And so he stays in their cramped quarters and he waits and waits without really knowing what he’s waiting for. He has no idea what to expect at his and Prouvaire’s secret rendezvous. Nothing about the young psychic’s reaction to him has made much sense so far, and he supposes this will be no different.

He finally creeps out of the room at around half past five, just as the first slices of sunlight are edging their way across the floor. Enjolras, blessedly, does not stir.

The park is quiet. Grantaire knows that within the hour that will probably cease to be the case – there’ll be people on bikes cutting through on their way to work, maybe some jetlagged tourists wandering around looking dazed – but for now, it’s almost deserted. Not quite, though. There’s a boy already waiting by the gate.

“Hello, Jean Prouvaire,” Grantaire says as he approaches. “Fancy meeting you here.”

He’s certain that Prouvaire knew he was coming – being psychic and all – but he appears to be accustomed to doing the same thing Grantaire so often does himself; acting oblivious until the other person brings attention to themselves. At the sound of his voice, he looks up, and Grantaire finds himself on the receiving end of another hundred-watt smile.

“It’s Jehan,” Prouvaire reminds him.

“I hear you’re only ‘Jehan’ to your friends.”

“Well, we’re going to be friends, aren’t we?”

Grantaire just laughs quietly at that. A psychic should really know better.

“Let’s take a walk,” Jehan says, gesturing towards the park’s main pathway. “The trees are really pretty, aren’t they?”

“I didn’t think we were here to admire the scenery,” Grantaire remarks but he falls into step with him nonetheless.

Jehan rolls his eyes. “You sound like Enjolras.”

Grantaire blinks and then shakes his head.

“You’re right, that was quite an Enjolrasian thing to say,” he says. “I hereby retract it. Nice scenery is good no matter what you’re doing.”

Jehan nods contentedly in agreement, admiring the leafy branches overhead.

“So, are you ‘Grantaire’ to your friends?” he asks after a moment. “It’s not really your name, is it?”

“Do your psychic powers tell you so?”

“They do. And also ‘Grantaire’ isn’t a...” He trails off. Grantaire laughs again.

“Isn’t a what?” he coaxes. Jehan gives a laugh of his own, biting down on his own knuckle to hide his grin.

“I can’t say it,” he says, eyes bright with excitement. “You say it. Say what you are.”

“Don’t you know already?”

“Of course I do. I think I do. I can _see_.” Jehan sighs happily. “Your wings are so very beautiful.”

Grantaire jumps slightly; he’d known that Jehan could see _something_ that marked him as inhuman, but he hadn’t been aware he was seeing quite that much detail.

“But I need you to say it,” Jehan goes on. “I’m scared I’m wrong. I’ve never seen anyone like you before. I was almost sure you didn’t exist. Please! Tell me.”

“Trust me when I say you’d be better off if we didn’t exist,” Grantaire says. Still, he opens his wings a little and can’t stifle a smile when Jehan gives an enraptured gasp. “You know what I am, but I don’t think you know what it means. I’m an angel of the Lord and I apologise in advance for the crushing disappointment coming your way.”

Jehan appears to hear only one word of that.

“Angel! I knew it. I knew,” he says, clapping his hands. “I can see your halo, too.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s lovely.”

“Thanks, I polish it myself.”

Jehan laughs with delight.

“ _So_ , ‘Grantaire’ isn’t an angel name,” he says triumphantly. “What’s your real name?”

“That is my real name.”

“No _way_.”

“I have another name,” Grantaire concedes. “An older one. But it’s not my name anymore.”

“What was it?” Jehan asks with imploring eyes. Grantaire shakes his head.

“It’s dead,” he says. “It doesn’t matter now.”

Jehan frowns for a moment, but then his psychically-aided judgement seems to tell him to let this one go.

“That’s okay,” he says, linking their arms together. “Grantaire is nice.”

Grantaire looks down at him; at his relaxed posture and cheerful freckled face and his clear blue, untroubled sky-soul.

“Why aren’t you afraid?” he asks finally. Jehan blinks.

“Why would I be?” he asks in return.

“You’re a psychic who works with hunters,” Grantaire points out. “And you know I’m only playing at being human.”

“The whole reason I’m here with you and Enjolras is that ‘not human’ doesn’t always translate to ‘bad’,” Jehan says. “I’m not scared of ‘not human’. I guess I’m scared of evil. And I know evil when I see it.” He unwinds his arm from Grantaire’s and reaches up to cup his face with both hands, peering into his eyes with a candidness that any regular human would probably find highly disconcerting. “You’re not evil.”

“Good to know,” Grantaire says weakly, and maybe it’s something of a relief to hear that, but ‘not evil’ isn’t the same as being good, and-

“Stop that,” Jehan says with a frown. “Don’t be sad. It’s a sunny morning and we’re going to be friends. Smile!”

Grantaire is helpless to disobey. Jehan seems to be an inspirer of smiles. Grantaire gets a certain _feeling_ from him; a feeling that he hands out love to everyone and everything that will accept it from him, knowing that his supply will never run dry. It’s a trait he hasn’t seen in a human in a _long_ time.

“That’s better,” Jehan says cheerily. His expression turns wistful. “Your wings are sort of faint. Like they’re not really here.”

“Well, they’re not, really,” Grantaire says, amused.

“Can I see them for real some time?”

“No,” Grantaire says immediately. Jehan’s eyes are light grey-green and he shudders at the thought of them going up in flames and leaving two blackened holes in his face. “You could get hurt. Our true forms can be...overwhelming.”

“Hmm. Yeah, I can understand that. Even like this, you’re pretty _bright_.” Jehan makes a show of shading his eyes. “That’s too bad. I bet they’re even more amazing for real.”

“I think you might be mad, Jean Prouvaire.”

“Call me Jehan,” he says insistently.

“Then you’re mad, Jehan,” Grantaire says. “To be so unafraid, I mean. To trust me even when you know that I’m lying to the people around you.”

“Oo-oh, yes. Enjolras doesn’t know.” Jehan nods as if he only just remembered this. “Why doesn’t he know?”

“If he knew, he’d kill me.”

“Would he?” Jehan outright laughs at that, and Grantaire isn’t sure why it’s so funny. “And it’s a secret because you don’t want him to kill you?”

“Only sometimes.”

“Are you his guardian angel?”

“No. There’s no such thing.”

“So why are you with him? If not to protect him and not to get yourself killed?”

Grantaire pauses. “I...no, it is to protect him.”

“So then you are his guardian angel.”

“That makes it sound like he was, I don’t know, _assigned_ to me by Heaven,” Grantaire says. “Not the case.”

“No?”

“Heaven is a terrible place behind the staff door,” Grantaire tells him. “I hope you never have to see it from that side.”

Jehan regards him gravely for a moment. Grantaire can feel their minds brushing against each other, their thoughts gradually falling into a strange kind of synch, and it’s the closest he’s had to direct contact with one of his own kind in centuries. It makes him feel a little nostalgic, but not enough to make him forget the reality of what he ran away from. He isn’t sure if Jehan gleans some of the details from his mind through this natural osmosis, but after a short silence he nods.

“How long have you been with Enjolras?” he asks instead of pursuing the matter of guardian angels.

Grantaire opens his mouth to say ‘ten months’ but Jehan snatches the thought right out of the air before he can make a sound.

“That’s a pretty long time,” he exclaims. “He must like you.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Grantaire says.

“I do.”

“He tolerates me for the sake of the greater good,” Grantaire tells him. “We have a certain arrangement.”

“That sounds shady,” Jehan laughs. “Alright, tell me. What’s the arrangement?”

“In exchange for being his tagalong, I offered him something I knew he couldn’t say no to,” Grantaire says.

Jehan looks at him expectantly.

“Angels are soldiers, designed to destroy a certain kind of evil which, by lucky coincidence, just happens to be the same kind of evil that hunters work to destroy,” Grantaire goes on. “An angel’s sword is just as specialised for the purpose as the angel itself. It’d make a very useful weapon in a human’s hands.”

Jehan, in his anticipation, once again skips to the punch-line.

“Enjolras is so _lucky_ ,” he says, mouth agape.

“Well, the downside is that he has to put up with me 24/7,” Grantaire reminds him, amused.

“I didn’t know angels said such mean things about themselves.”

“There’s a lot about angels you don’t know.”

“Then I look forward to learning,” Jehan says with a decisive nod. He frowns unhappily. “Are you sure we can’t tell Enjolras?”

“You’ll keep it a secret if I ask you to?”

“Of course.”

“Even though Enjolras is your friend?”

Jehan pauses and briefly does that _peering_ thing again.

“You don’t like that!” he exclaims, looking torn between laughter and exasperation. “You’d rather I was loyal to him than to you!”

“He needs it,” Grantaire says with a shrug. “He deserves it.”

“You’re wonderful,” Jehan says and Grantaire really hopes, for his sake, that he doesn’t talk to everyone like this. Most people would not be accustomed to this level of sincere positivity. “I wouldn’t do anything to hurt Enjolras. If you think that keeping your secret is what’s best for both of you, then I’ll do it.”

“If he learned the truth, he’d kill me. He’d have to. It’s what he does. I wouldn’t stop him,” Grantaire says. “But, if I’m dead, I can’t protect him anymore, you understand? And I just...not yet. I want to look after him at least a little longer.” He chuckles under his breath. “I keep telling myself that. It was never meant to go on this long. But he’s...he’s just...”

He trails off, shaking his head.

“He’s amazing, right?” Jehan laughs. “Don’t worry, I think so too. I was a little scared of him at first, but not now. Only monsters should be scared of him.” He pauses a moment. “I think that’s something else Enjolras needs. People who aren’t scared of him. I bet you’re good for him that way.”

“I don’t take him terribly seriously, if that’s what you mean,” Grantaire says.

“Good,” Jehan says with another nod.

The first cyclist goes whizzing by them. They turn around and start to head back the way they came.

“He’s going to find out eventually, though, isn’t he?” Jehan says at length.

“Enjolras? Of course. He’s a hunter. He’ll get suspicious sooner or later,” Grantaire says. “Or, you know, he’ll do something phenomenally stupid and get himself beat up beyond repair, and I’ll have to blow my own cover putting him back together.”

“You can do that? Heal people?” The awe is back in Jehan’s eyes. He doesn’t wait for Grantaire to reply, instead just siphoning the obvious answer straight from his mind again. “Wow. What else can you do?”

“Kill people just by talking too loudly?” Grantaire says dryly but Jehan ignores him.

“And of course you can fly!” he says. “That must be...I can’t even imagine. What’s it _like_?”

“It’s...fast,” Grantaire says. “Less like flying as humans know it and more like...teleportation, I suppose.”

“Wow.” Jehan’s mouth is an almost perfect ‘o’. “...Can you take passengers?”

“...You want to fly?” Grantaire interprets and is rewarded with a beseeching smile. “Seriously?”

“If you can do it, you better take me sometime,” Jehan says, wagging a finger sternly. “Since I’m not allowed to see your wings for real. Consolation prize.”

“I’m still pretty sure you’re mad,” Grantaire says, shaking his head. “But if you’re really crazy enough to want me to zap you somewhere, we can talk about that later. Just now, Enjolras is going to need his first coffee of the day.”

“You bring him _coffee_?” Jehan’s expression is one of utmost exasperation. “And you really think he’ll want to _kill you_ when he finds out the truth? If someone brought me coffee every morning, I’d just assume they were an angel. I’d want to keep them _forever._ ”

Grantaire just laughs and lets him link their arms together again as they go in search of the nearest coffee shop.

~

When they get back to the hotel, Enjolras is awake and dressed but still bleary-eyed. They are laden with coffee and a lot more food than usual, since Jehan seems to have even stronger feelings about eating a substantial breakfast than Grantaire does, and because Jehan is human and actually does need to eat, Grantaire is happy to let him be the authority on the subject. Enjolras glances up at the sound of the door and frowns slightly.

“You look like you need this,” Grantaire says, handing him the largest of the cups of coffee.

“Thanks,” Enjolras says, but it sounds like an automated response and his eyes are flicking from him to Jehan and back again, like he’s surprised to see them together and is trying to figure out just when they became so amicable considering they barely spoke the day before.

“We got waffles,” Jehan announces, unloading his bags onto the very tiny table. “But also fruit because fruit is important.” He holds up a slightly greasy-looking container. “But also bacon.”

“The most important of all the food groups,” Grantaire says with a nod.

“And _you_ ,” Jehan points at Enjolras, “are not allowed to just inhale your caffeine and eat half an apple. It’ll be a long day.”

“He does that to you too?” Grantaire gives a long-suffering sigh. “Keeping him halfway healthy is exhausting, isn’t it?”

“He worries too much about everyone else and not enough about himself,” Jehan says. During the course of this exchange, Enjolras sinks slowly into a chair and stares between the two of them like he can’t quite believe this is happening to him so early in the morning. Even his soul is just a hazy muddle, too tired and dazed to even be annoyed.

“You’re very quiet, Enjolras,” Jehan says, sliding a waffle on a napkin across to him. “Are you alright?”

“I’m just revelling in my good fortune to be travelling with not one but two morning people,” Enjolras replies sourly. Grantaire just snorts, more than used to Enjolras’s charming morning manner, but he sees a single small, dark cloud suddenly blossom in Jehan’s sky-soul. Enjolras doesn’t see that, of course, but he does notice his small, worried frown. He sighs and leans over and nudges Jehan’s hand with his own. Jehan blinks and then the cloud just as quickly evaporates; he and Enjolras exchange smiles and he goes back to handing out food.

Grantaire, whose mind is still pressed snugly against Jehan’s, sends a questioning pulse his way. In response, he gets a flurry of images and a phantom approximation of Jehan’s voice explaining that physical contact heightens the transmission of thoughts, even with people he isn’t actively ‘listening’ to, and that was Enjolras’s way of assuring him that he was only joking.

Grantaire thinks that Enjolras is very lucky to have a psychic friend who can deal with his chronic failure at self-expression. Jehan hears that, of course, and sends a scolding but amused prod back at him.

“So what’s the plan, captain?” Jehan asks while he cuts up a banana with a knife that looks more suited for stabbing someone in the kidneys. He dumps the banana slices on top of the waffle he forced on Enjolras and then proceeds to drown the whole thing in syrup. Once again, Grantaire gets the distinct impression that they have _been here before_ and Enjolras has learned not to put up a fight.

“One of those extremely irresponsible ghost tours is running tonight so, painful as it may be, we should probably be part of it,” Enjolras says, grimacing. “In the meantime, it can’t hurt to look at the areas where the most activity has been reported. Maybe ask some questions.”

“What’s our cover?”

Enjolras sighs heavily.

“Combeferre suggested we be paranormal investigators,” he says, sounding like he can’t quite understand why Combeferre would do such a thing to him. Jehan snorts with laughter.

“Your favourite,” he says. “So, we’re with the _Daily Spectre_?”

Enjolras groans but nods.

“...What’s that?” Grantaire dares to ask. Jehan just sniggers.

“It’s an online periodical detailing the ongoing investigations of a team of travelling ghost hunters,” Enjolras says dully. “By which I mean the type of ghost hunters who never actually find any ghosts. It’s completely real but also completely fake. Combeferre created it purely to back up the ‘paranormal investigator’ alias.”

“No way.” Grantaire grins. “Does that mean I can go online and read all about some of your previous exploits?”

“Sure, if you want to read the version where I heard a door shut _all by itself_ and my night-vision camera picked up a mysterious moving shape outside the window that might have been a ghost but might also have been a plastic bag blowing in the wind.”

“Oh God, I remember that one.” Jehan had been enthusiastically shovelling bacon into his mouth but he has to stop because he’s laughing so hard. “Poor Combeferre, he had to basically rewrite the whole thing to tone down your scathing and completely undisguised sarcasm.”

“Wait, you have to actually write the articles?” Grantaire is frankly offended that Enjolras never mentioned this goldmine of doubtless hilarity before.

“Combeferre says it would be _obvious_ if he wrote them all and put different names on them,” Enjolras mutters. “And also he’s, you know, pretty busy.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll write this one,” Jehan says brightly, turning to Grantaire. “It’s so much fun. In the last one I wrote, we were in this really old house, and the _spiritual vibes_ were so strong that I fell into a deep trance and saw visions of the house when it was new and beautiful and I witnessed the truth of how the lady of the house died and that was enough to send her spirit to rest. I thought it was very moving.”

“I don’t think I read your last one,” Enjolras says. “What was I doing while you were having this vision?”

“You were sulking because all your totally legit ghost-detecting equipment broke down and so there was tragically no evidence of all the amazing stuff that happened,” Jehan tells him.

“Devastating,” Grantaire chuckles while Enjolras rolls his eyes.

“Don’t worry, I’ll paint you in a more heroic light this time,” Jehan promises. “The spirit will try to lure me towards my untimely doom, and you’ll come running to my rescue. In doing so you’ll be forced to drop your camera, and so there’ll once again be no evidence.”

“Let’s not talk about anyone’s ‘untimely doom’ before we’ve even figured out what we’re dealing with,” Enjolras says dryly. “No point in tempting fate.”

He goes back to eating, since it’s fairly clear that he’s not allowed to go anywhere until he finishes what was put in front of him. He keeps tucking his slightly haphazard curls behind his ears, probably to keep them away from the food and particularly the syrup. Jehan eventually wipes his hands clean and gets up to stand behind him, producing a hair tie from nowhere.

“If you’re going to wear your hair long, you really need to invest in some specialist equipment,” he says, dangling the hair tie in front of Enjolras’s eyes.

“I don’t wear it long on _purpose_ ,” Enjolras protests while Jehan combs his hair back with his fingers and secures it in a short ponytail. “It’s annoying, actually.”

“You really don’t take any time out to take care of yourself, do you?” Jehan says, amused. “I can cut it for you later, if you want.”

“A morning person, a psychic and a barber,” Grantaire says. He wonders if Jehan felt the stab of strange, ugly envy that cut through him at seeing his and Enjolras’s obvious closeness; at how he can reach out and touch him so casually, so easily, and neither of them think anything of it. He hopes not. “I think we should keep him for always.”

The corners of Enjolras’s mouth turn downwards just slightly, but before Grantaire can try to figure out what that might mean, Jehan is laughing again.

“No way, I’m not cut out for living on the road like you hunters,” he says. “I have a cat, you know. I can only ask my neighbour to feed her for so long.”

~

One refreshing thing about posing as paranormal investigators in a current supernatural hotspot, in Grantaire’s opinion, is that they can quite openly walk around on the street with EMF meters in hand and no one even bats an eyelid. They aren’t even the only ones; he can see a few genuine (and presumably, spectacularly naive) ghost enthusiasts wandering around looking very serious, holding cameras out in front of them and keeping their eyes fixed determinedly on the viewfinder as they walk, because _everyone knows_ that no spirit can hide from the lens of an iPhone. Their complete lack of ghost-hunting knowledge is just fine with Grantaire. So much the better for everyone involved if they never find anything.

There’s even a small circle of people gathered on the banks of one of the canals, conducting a very phoney-sounding séance being led by a very phoney-sounding self-styled medium. Jehan purses his lips in obvious disapproval as they pass but doesn’t comment. Grantaire sends him a comforting psychic nudge just to remind him that he is the real deal and should just laugh at hacks like that.

He doesn’t normally touch the minds of humans. It’s invasive and rude, for one thing. And furthermore, it just feels pointless. Most humans can’t reciprocate. So he could creepily sift through their every thought, but there’d be nothing in return, no connection, no _bond._ Maybe Jehan feels that way too, because he offered up that bond almost immediately. It’s not quite the same as connecting to another angel, but it’s _good,_ it’s a kind of closeness Grantaire hasn’t been able to experience for too many long years, and he soaks it up. He’s careful not to push too hard, and he keeps a lot of his own mind screened off, because if Jehan were to poke too far into his extremely deep pool of memories he’d probably drown. But nonetheless, he loves it, and he can’t believe his own good fortune. Jehan must be the only psychic on the face of the Earth whose immediate reaction to seeing something non-human in human skin isn’t to scream.  

An obvious side-effect of practically living in each other’s heads is a rapidly developing sense of familiarity – that is, familiarity of the sort that normal humans might not feel until they’ve spent years together. Which is nice and everything, but Grantaire knows that their rapport is already striking Enjolras as distinctly weird, and that’s not good. He could laugh at how tenuous and pathetic his situation is sometimes.

“The reported activity isn’t limited to any one place,” Enjolras is saying, frowning at his notes and map. “Of course, now that it’s become tourist fodder, it’s difficult to tell which reports are genuine and which are just people trying to make their ghost tours more exciting.”

“They could all be real,” Jehan says. “I mean, it’s possible.”

“Like a possessed object? Something that could be moved around?”

“Let me look?” Jehan holds his hands out and Enjolras lets him take all the papers. Jehan smoothes them out on top of the stone wall of a bridge and starts reading. Once he’s studied the information thoroughly, he produces a pen from his pocket and starts drawing on the map. Enjolras doesn’t harass or question him; just leans against the wall and watches him work. Grantaire thinks that, despite Enjolras’s lack of psychic aptitude, he and Jehan must have established _some_ kind of connection during the time they’ve known each other. Because Enjolras has only been hunting for going on four years, and he can’t have required psychic back-up _very_ frequently in that time, and yet he seems to trust Jehan almost as much as he does Combeferre, with who he’s in contact almost every day.

Grantaire thinks he’d rather like to know the story behind it.

“I think most of the reports are real,” Jehan declares finally. “Look.”

He holds up the map, on which he has drawn what appear to be several concentric circles. Enjolras and Grantaire look at it blankly. Grantaire is halfway through psychically requesting an explanation when Enjolras says, “What is it?”

“...It’s a ripple effect,” Jehan says, looking quite offended on behalf of his diagram. “Apart from one or two random exceptions – fakes, I guess – all the reported ghost activity took place at a point on one of these circles.”

“How is that possible?” Enjolras asks, perturbed.

“Shockwaves,” Jehan says. When this earns him more blank looks, he shakes his head and points at the map. “At this point here, right in the centre, three streetlamps have...popped. Like, the bulbs actually shattered. Dogs drag their owners the other way and won’t set foot on the street. And it’s the middle of summer but people have recorded spots at sub-zero temperatures.” He shifts his finger to the outermost circle. “Whereas here, people are getting occasional static interference on their phone-calls and music players.”

“So whatever’s causing all this is at the centre point.” Enjolras nods in understanding. “The things happening further away are just...residual.”

“Pretty much.” Jehan nods. “It’s almost like, whatever it is, it’s sending out these waves of EMF. Like it wants to get noticed.”

“It worked,” Enjolras says with a shrug. “Where is that point on the map?”

“Not far,” Jehan says cheerfully, folding the papers up and tucking them under his arm. “I like this city. Everything’s within walking distance.”

~

Aside from three broken streetlamps, the centre point on Jehan’s map of ghost activity doesn’t look any different from any other street they’ve walked today. It runs parallel to a stretch of canal, just like approximately half of all the streets in Amsterdam. It’s also quite close to the red-light district and, on a possibly related note, has a row of charming boutiques displaying some very ambitious-looking sex toys in their windows. Grantaire is just pondering whether some risqué remark on his part would make Enjolras blush or just glower in distaste – is he embarrassed by sex or just _above it?_ – when he feels the drastic shift in Jehan’s mind. He turns to him, startled, just in time to see his soul flood inky, starless black. He had placed one hand against the metal pole of one of the broken lights but he snatches it back now and claps it over his own mouth, doubling over like he’s about to be sick. His thoughts are in such an uproar that Grantaire has to temporarily block them out just so that he can keep his own mind together and help him.

“Enjolras,” he says as he goes towards Jehan, because they know each other, they’ve worked together before, and Enjolras might know what’s wrong _._ Enjolras, who had wandered off a little way with his EMF meter, looks up and says ‘oh’ before hurrying back to them, and Grantaire is _pretty_ sure that was the ‘oh’ of a man who knows what’s happening but that might just be wishful thinking.

“Jehan.” Enjolras places a hand on his shoulder. “What is it? It’s bad?”

Jehan sucks in a deep breath, closes his eyes for a moment.

“...Sorry,” he says finally, uncurling from his hunched, pained stance and standing up straight. “Sorry, it hit me all at once. Took me by surprise.”

“What did?” Grantaire asks, looking at the streetlamp distrustfully.

“When a spirit interacts with an object, it leaves...traces,” Enjolras says without taking his eyes of Jehan. He looks ready to catch him – like he’s _expecting_ him to fall any second. “Psychics can pick up on them.”

“This thing sure channelled everything into breaking that light.” Jehan’s voice sounds distant and dazed. He looks up at Enjolras. “I don’t think it’s vengeful. Not yet. But it’s so angry, and so _scared-_ ”

“Come on,” Enjolras says quietly, taking him by the arm and steering him away.

“No, no, I’m fine.” Jehan cranes his neck to look over his shoulder at the street he’s being led away from. “Really, it was just a surprise. I can find out more for you.”

“Later,” Enjolras says.

“I’m alright,” Jehan insists – but he isn’t, Grantaire can see that he isn’t; his soul is still shrouded in darkness, and when he reaches out to brush against his mind, he can feel it still reeling, stinging from the onslaught of foreign emotions.

“Humour me,” Enjolras says, and he’s trying to sound stern but Grantaire sees the faintest hint of a smile curving his mouth, and he thinks maybe he loves _this_ Enjolras the most, the one who can be gentle and who puts his friends before the case, and he can only wonder why he works so hard to _hide_ that side of himself.

“Enjolras,” Jehan says with exasperation, literally digging his heels in until Enjolras is forced to stop and turn to him. “This is what I’m here to do, remember?”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t stop when it’s hurting you. I’ve seen it before, when something bad hits you like that.”

“Then you know that I’ll live, right?”

“Of course.”

“So let me do what you brought me here to do.”

“But-”

“I’m all grown up these days, you know,” Jehan says, managing a weak smile. “I can decide when I need to stop.”

There is a slightly loaded silence, since it seems like this is a matter of pride for both of them, which makes it unlikely that either of them will back down. Grantaire, who can see the prickly humiliation and determination in Jehan’s soul and the fierce protectiveness in Enjolras’s, decides to be an idiot and intervene.

“Arguing?” he says with his best shocked expression. “Enjolras, I thought that was a special thing between you and me.”

Enjolras looks at him as if only just remembering that he’s been here this whole time and promptly goes red. Grantaire isn’t exactly sure what he’s embarrassed about: that comment, or the fact that Grantaire once again witnessed him acting like an actual human being with actual human feelings, or the fact that he’s clearly losing this argument. Maybe a combination of all three.

“...At least sit down for a minute?” Enjolras says finally, gesturing to a nearby bench.

Jehan hangs his head slightly, and amidst the ongoing tumult in his mind Grantaire can pick up on his faint annoyance and lingering shame, but his legs are shaking quite visibly and he seems to know a sensible suggestion when he hears it.

“Fine, but just for a minute,” he says. He delicately disentangles his arm from Enjolras’s and makes his own way over to the seat. Grantaire goes to follow, pausing when Enjolras doesn’t move.

“You coming?” he asks.

“I’m going to get him a drink or something,” Enjolras mutters. “Don’t let him faint into the canal while I’m gone.”

“I heard that,” Jehan calls.

“Slovakia,” Enjolras replies dryly.

“That was one time! And it was almost two years ago!”

Enjolras just sighs and walks away. Grantaire waves at his retreating back, a smile playing on his lips.

After a moment, he goes and sits down next to Jehan, who is looking sullenly at the ground beneath his feet.

“What happened in Slovakia?” Grantaire asks conversationally. Jehan sniffs irritably even as he hastily throws up some mental roadblocks to hide the memories from view.

“The same thing that just happened now, basically. I might have passed out and fallen into a frozen lake,” he says stiffly.

“Wow.”

“One time.” Jehan’s normally sunny soul gives a few angry lightning-flashes.

“Why are you upset?” Grantaire asks. “Enjolras is right, you’re not okay.”

“I am, though,” Jehan replies. “I mean, it hurts. Getting hit with strong echoes like that when I’m not expecting it is always a psychic sucker-punch, and I know you can feel that from me. But it’s been happening to me all my life, you know? I’m used to it and I can deal with it.”

“You’re forgetting that in Enjolras’s mind, he’s the only one who’s allowed to suffer,” Grantaire points out with a dry smile. Jehan sucks in a deep breath and blows it out noisily through his nose.

“He’d keep fighting even if he was missing an arm and a leg,” he complains. “But I get a headache and he drags me away.”

“Ah, let him fuss over you,” Grantaire says. “It’s a sign you’re a very privileged individual, you know.”

Despite his recent shock and the pain Grantaire can sympathetically feel pulsing between his temples, Jehan manages a smile.

“Would you like him to fuss over you sometime?” he asks. “I think he would, if you let him.”

“I don’t get headaches,” Grantaire informs him. That earns him a laugh and a light kick to his shin.

“That’s a lie,” Jehan says, pulling a few of Grantaire’s numerous hangover memories to the forefront of their shared headspace.

“That’s different, that’s self-inflicted.”

“Sure is.” Jehan delves a little deeper into those memories until the effort starts to put strain on his already aching brain, at which point Grantaire gently pushes him out. “You could heal yourself no problem, though. Why don’t you?”

“Like I said, it’s self-inflicted,” Grantaire says with a shrug.

“I bet it drives Enjolras crazy that you bring that on yourself.” Despite the fact that Enjolras is out of sight and can’t possibly hear them, Jehan leans closer and lowers his voice conspiratorially. “But I bet that doesn’t stop him wanting to fuss over it.”

He slips back into that shared pool of memories and quickly extracts a very specific one – it’s from that night in that tiny town in Spain, right after Grantaire felt thousands of angels being murdered and tried to drink it away, and Enjolras was so angry, but Jehan is focusing on the part where Enjolras handed him a cold bottle of water and sat with him on the hard ground until he was ready to come back inside-

Grantaire pushes him out again and throws up a wall between their minds.

“Give your psychic muscles a rest,” he says. “They’re having a rough day.”

“I told you, I’m used to it,” Jehan says even as he brings his hands up to massage his temples. “It’d be nice if aspirin had any effect on this kind of headache, though.”

Grantaire isn’t sure if it’ll have much effect, given that he isn’t sure if it’s strictly physical pain Jehan is suffering from, but he reaches out anyway and covers one of Jehan’s hands with his own and sends a tiny pulse of Grace through his palm. Jehan’s eyes snap wide and then fall shut with what looks like relief.

“Whatever you just did, please do it again,” he says, taking Grantaire’s hand and pressing it directly against his forehead. Grantaire laughs, glad to be able to help like this for once, and obliges. It’s just the slightest burst of healing Grace – any more would be accompanied by some glowing, which _might_ draw some attention – but it seems to do the trick. Jehan sighs and sags against his side.

“You really are an angel,” he mumbles, leaning his head on Grantaire’s shoulder.

“That word doesn’t mean what you think it means,” Grantaire says. “I told you that.”

“Uh-huh.”

They’re quiet while Jehan recuperates. The addition of Grace seems to have, at least, accelerated the process – when Grantaire next prods tentatively at his mind, that raw ache is almost completely gone.

“...Earlier, you said to Enjolras that you’re ‘all grown up’ now,” he says suddenly.

“Well, I am,” Jehan replies. He seems to have made himself quite comfortable on Grantaire’s shoulder and doesn’t bother lifting his head now. “Though I suppose we both seem very tiny to you. How old are you, anyway?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Grantaire says. In all honesty, he’s lost track somewhat. “Does that mean you weren’t grown up when you and Enjolras met?”

Jehan snorts.

“Neither of us was,” he says. “I was seventeen. Enjolras was nineteen. He only _thought_ that made him less of a kid than me.”

“What were you doing, running around with hunters at seventeen?” Grantaire asks. He keeps his tone light but he’s sure Jehan can feel the anxious protectiveness that’s currently squirming in his gut. “Didn’t your psychic powers tell you that was a bad idea?”

“Sure did.” Jehan laughs. “You might say the situation called for it.”

“You got caught up in a hunt?”

“Yeah, sort of.”

“Enjolras’s hunt?”

“I think it was mine before it was Enjolras’s, really. And he hadn’t been hunting long at that time.” Jehan pauses and dips into Grantaire’s thoughts again – after a moment Grantaire realises he’s checking whether he knows about Feuilly. “Feuilly was still calling the shots, back then.”

“You knew him?”

“Yeah. Not as well as Enjolras, obviously, since they travelled together.”

“What was he like?” Grantaire can’t deny that he’s been curious even since Enjolras first let slip about his deceased mentor.

“He was great.” Jehan throws a few fleeting images his way of a wiry man with reddish hair and enough matching stubble to suggest an impatience with regular shaving. His attire and bearing suggest an unassuming layman, but his eyes are calculating. Not always, though. In some of these snapshot memories, his face is kind. “He was pretty much the only reason that Enjolras survived his first year of hunting. And they both knew it.”

“He was younger than I imagined,” Grantaire remarks. For whatever reason, he’d automatically pictured Enjolras’s mentor as some grizzled veteran hunter – the man in Jehan’s memories can’t be much older than thirty.

“Does Enjolras not talk about him?”

“No. He doesn’t like to tell me much about anything.”

“Maybe you just go about asking him the wrong way,” Jehan says with a brief, faint glow of amusement in his soul. “But with Feuilly, he’s probably still too sad to talk about him much.”

Grantaire sends a pulse of scepticism through their joined minds and transmits his memory of Enjolras very dispassionately informing him of his teacher’s demise. Jehan sends a pulse right back at him – it communicates a feeling that Grantaire doesn’t have an exact word for, but it feels very close to the psychic equivalent of rolling his eyes.

“You don’t actually let Enjolras fool you, do you?” Jehan says. “I know he’s very good at pretending to care about precisely nothing besides the greater good, but I didn’t think your eyes would fall for that.”

“I have a policy of not looking into his head.”

“Well, so do I, unless he gives me permission. Maybe it’s just easier to see past someone’s bullshit if you knew them when they were nineteen and stupid.”

“So what exactly am I missing?”

“Being sad isn’t going to help him fight monsters, right?” Jehan says. “So no matter how sad he feels, he can’t _let_ himself be sad, you know?”

“That doesn’t make much sense.”

“If Enjolras made sense, he wouldn’t be Enjolras.”

Grantaire hums his agreement.

“What was he like, back then?” he asks. It’s another thing he’s always very curious about. He regrets not getting a chance to ask Courfeyrac and the others in Lyon the same question.

“Enjolras?” Jehan laughs again. “He wasn’t _so_ different. Just younger. Just as focused, but less experienced. Probably a bit more reckless.”

“Lord have mercy.” Grantaire tries very hard not to think about the sort of stupid things Enjolras must have done in his misguided youth. Jehan doesn’t show him any images, which is both a blessing and a shame.

“Really, I think he’s changed more since he met you than he did the whole rest of the time I’ve known him.”

Grantaire blinks.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

Jehan lifts his head at that, looking at Grantaire’s face as if to check if he’s being serious.

“Wow,” he says finally, settling back down with a theatrical sigh. “You two are _horrendous_ at this.”

“At what?”

Jehan just sighs again.

They’re still sitting like that, with Jehan’s head cushioned on Grantaire’s shoulder, when Enjolras comes back. He looks briefly bemused by their closeness again but is quick to smother it – there’s something other than confusion in his expression as he reaches them, and Grantaire can’t quite pinpoint what it is but, at the very least, he can tell that it’s not a happy look. He tries to examine Enjolras’s soul for any clues there, but is surprised to find it extremely inconclusive – there are no clear emotions infiltrating its usual golden shine. The bright gold light looks oddly strained, though – like it’s currently just a thin lacquer wrapped around something _else_ underneath.

And that means something’s wrong, Grantaire realises with a twinge of concern. Because that means Enjolras, who is not normally one to keep his emotions bottled up, is pushing something down so fiercely that he’s even hiding it from himself.

“Were your ears burning?” Jehan asks.

“What?” Enjolras says, handing him a bottle of water from the plastic bag in his hand.

“We were just talking about you.” Jehan finally sits up. “Grantaire was asking about how we met, and how I got sucked into hunting.”

“Of course he was,” Enjolras says dryly, sitting down on the other side of Jehan. “That’s his hobby.”

“There are worse hobbies,” Grantaire puts in.

“Maybe it’s a story for another time,” Jehan says. “We should tell it together.”

Enjolras makes a non-committal sound.

“How’s your head?” he asks Jehan. His voice sounds entirely normal. He’d be doing an excellent job of seeming just like his usual self if it weren’t for the fact that he’s sitting with a psychic and an angel.

“The same as it always is when this happens,” Jehan replies after taking a gulp of water. “It looks worse than it is, Enjolras. And I’ll need to take a closer look at this area sooner or later, you know. It might as well be now.”

“Woah, so dedicated,” Grantaire says with a whistle. “Don’t be so hasty, this might be your one chance to do some sight-seeing. Do you have any idea of the kind of life-threatening injury I’d have to sustain to get cut a break like this?”

Enjolras’s soul bristles and for a tense moment Grantaire is sure that something dark and ugly is going to punch right out from behind that golden layer. But it doesn’t; whatever it is, Enjolras reins it in, and his only outward response to that remark is a brief, cutting glance in Grantaire’s direction.

“No sight-seeing until the case is closed,” Jehan says. “I know the rules.”

“I don’t make _rules_ ,” Enjolras mutters, turning away. “You can both do whatever you like.”

“It’s my rule, then,” Jehan says, getting to his feet. This time, his legs don’t shake. “I couldn’t take it if someone got hurt because I was souvenir shopping instead of working.”

Enjolras doesn’t ask if he’s sure he’s okay or if he needs more time to recover, though Grantaire can see him itching to. Instead, he follows Jehan back to the point where all the supernatural activity seems to be stemming from.

“Did you get any information earlier?” he asks.

“Not much. It was all very chaotic,” Jehan replies. “It’s definitely a ghost, though. And, like I told you, very scared. Very angry.”

“Did they die here?” Enjolras asks, looking sceptically at the very unassuming street, which doesn’t seem to present many opportunities for a violent death. “Can you tell?”

“Difficult to say.” Jehan is frowning with concentration. Grantaire can see him erecting barricades in his mind, bracing himself in case of another psychic onslaught. “It would make the most sense, but these things hardly ever make sense, do they?”

“You’re telling me.” Enjolras makes a point of hanging back and not hovering over Jehan’s shoulder while he gets back to investigating. “Since we’ve established that it’s a ghost and it’s here, does that mean we can skip this ghost tour tonight?”

“Afraid not,” Jehan says. “It’ll be at least ninety percent bullshit, of course. But the guide must have some theory about who the spirit is. It could be a starting point.” He shoots Enjolras a wide smile. “And the intrepid paranormal investigators of the _Daily Spectre_ wouldn’t miss it, would they?”

Enjolras pulls a face, probably without even intending to. His soul is still strange-looking – a thin skin of gold stretched over something much less pleasant – but his nauseated expression still makes Grantaire laugh.

“It could be funny, at least?” he says. “We can stand up the back and heckle.”

“You’re coming? I thought you wanted to go sight-seeing,” Enjolras says acidly. Grantaire looks at him, unsure whether to be amused or exasperated.

“You really can’t tell when I’m joking, can you?” he says. Enjolras just looks at him stonily. Jehan makes a small, pained noise.

“Horrendous, both of you,” he says under his breath.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just then, Enjolras's EMF meter, which has been humming steadily but quietly in his pocket for the last few minutes, starts crackling and wailing in earnest. He takes it out and looks at it grimly.
> 
> “That's never a good sign,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uuurrrgghhh this took so long, it's my own stupid fault for starting another fic, I'm sorry, I'm a fool.
> 
> But! Here's chapter 9!
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr!](http://www.fivie.tumblr.com)

 

 

~

 

Jehan examines every inch of the street with the broken lights, but he doesn’t find much. Ghosts don’t _exist_ in the same way as normal things, he explains; when they aren’t actively present and screwing with the living, they kind of blink out of existence. They’re just _gone_ , and nearly impossible to find. And this ghost, whatever its story might be, is not there right now, if indeed this is where it’s supposed to be. The few echoes he manages to pick up – and he’s ready for them this time – are all equally angry and scared and they all contain the same two words: _go away._

Enjolras isn’t much surprised by that. He remarks that most ghosts either try to kill anyone who gets too close, or they try to force them to go as far away as possible.

“They’re not very sociable, then?” Grantaire can’t help but say.

“Some of them are,” Jehan pipes up. “I lived with one for a long time.”

And, okay, that’s a story Grantaire definitely wants to hear later.

They spend the rest of the day on the internet, trying to ascertain whether any violent deaths have taken place on or near that street in recent memory, but there’s nothing. No murders, no suicides. They’re left scratching their heads, which doesn’t put any of them in an especially patient mood when the time comes for them to join the night’s ghost tour. Jehan does bring a reporter’s notebook, though. For authenticity, apparently. He also gives one to Enjolras, who takes it with a long-suffering sigh.

Grantaire knows it’s going to be a long night when the tour leader shows up wearing a dark purple robe with a hood. Jehan manages to keep a polite smile on his face, but Grantaire is completely aware that within his mind he is both recoiling with horror and shrieking with laughter.

“Oh, God,” Enjolras says under his breath.

“Yeah,” Jehan agrees. They position themselves towards the back of the gathered crowd, where they can hopefully at least lament the stupidity of this without being heard.

“Are there any other hunters here?” Enjolras asks. Jehan snorts doubtfully but scans the group.

“Not one,” he says after a minute or two. “Just a lot of people who think this’ll be scary but in a nice safe way.”

“It’d be nice if they were right about that,” Grantaire says.

“Should be easy to bullshit our way through, at least,” Enjolras says dryly. “Who’s doing the talking?”

“You,” Jehan says immediately, giving him a light shove towards the rest of the group. Grantaire remembers Enjolras saying something about Jehan being shy, and now – surrounded by strangers and with a high probability of those strangers wanting to talk – he’s seeing it for himself for the first time. Jehan’s soul is overcast and shrinking in on itself self-consciously; his mind is clawing at everything and nothing like an anxious cat. Grantaire, almost without thinking about it, reaches out and takes his hand, because he’s in Jehan’s head and knows he finds it a comfort.

“You’re not scared of these morons, are you?” he says quietly, nodding towards a small cluster of people who are passing round a bottle of New Age store-bought holy water (unsurprisingly, actually just normal drinking water) and splashing it on their faces ‘for protection’.

“Morons are usually the scariest sort of people,” Jehan replies, but he does laugh.

Enjolras looks down and sees their joined hands. He just as quickly looks away again, and says nothing, but Grantaire catches the twist of his mouth and the strange ripple in his soul. That gold veneer is getting thinner, he thinks. Maybe Jehan sees something too, because he reaches out with his free hand to take one of Enjolras’s. He’s shrugged off.

“I don’t think colleagues in the field of paranormal investigation hold hands,” Enjolras says. His tone is strangely curt. “Unless they’re conducting a séance, of course. Are we conducting a séance?”

“No,” Jehan says. He drops Grantaire’s hand. Grantaire shoots Enjolras a look, silently asking why he’s being a dick about it, but he is ignored.

While the tour guide waits for any latecomers, the gathered ghost enthusiasts mingle and swap stories and some of them – particularly a group of teenage girls here on holiday – want to know what the three of them are hoping to see tonight. With the girls, Grantaire is pretty sure it’s mostly Enjolras they’re interested in, but whatever.

And Enjolras is _good_ at this sort of thing. He would’ve made a great actor, Grantaire thinks. Or a motivational speaker. Or a politician. He could probably have been President of France by now. He’s so utterly charming when he wants to be; all smiles and nods and exactly the words that people want to hear, and he speaks so _ardently_ about things that Grantaire knows for a fact he actually believes are complete bullshit. He’s using terms like ‘the spirit-world’ and ‘otherworldly messengers’ and his blue eyes are shining earnestly and people are just eating it up. Grantaire thinks some of them are about to swoon. They’re all taking business cards for the real-but-fictitious _Daily Spectre,_ and Grantaire is torn between being outraged that Enjolras never told him that he carries such things and just wondering exactly how popular Combeferre’s massive in-joke of an online magazine really is.

Jehan sticks close to Grantaire’s side the whole time, offering people shy smiles but saying as little as possible. He even pretends to make some notes just to avoid eye contact.

Finally, the guide calls for their attention.

“We are about to embark on our journey, friends,” he says, his toothy smile gleaming under his absurd hood. “I ask you to be prepared for anything, because anything could happen. But don’t be afraid! The spirits will not harm you. No, no, they never would. They are the souls of our ancestors, returned from beyond the veil to help us. Follow me.”

With a dramatic sweep of his robe, he turns and starts leading them down the first street. Enjolras’s amiable smile abruptly falls away the minute no one is watching him.

“I’d like to introduce him to a couple of the ghosts I’ve met,” he mutters as they walk. “See how harmless he thinks they are then.”

“Deep breaths, now,” Grantaire says.

It's every bit as painful as they'd expected. They are led along like a school field trip, drawing strange looks from ordinary tourists, who are probably wondering why their leader appears to be dressed up as a wizard or something. Said leader seems utterly unembarrassed; he swishes along in very spectacular fashion, and occasionally stops in seemingly random places – 'paranormal hotspots' – to regale them with largely fabricated tales of 'sightings' and 'encounters' that have occurred there. Combeferre did rigorous research about all recently reported supernatural activity in the city before he sent them here, and Grantaire is confident that he never mentioned anything about ectoplasm seeping up from between the cobbles, or bloody writing appearing on walls. This guy is full of so much crap that it makes Grantaire sort of want to tear his head off. He puts on a good show, in a magician-at-a-kid's-birthday-party sort of way – lots of sweeping arm movements and bulging-eyed expressions and dramatic pauses, and most people seem to be enraptured. When he suddenly lets out a theatrical yell and points at a nearby shadowy alcove, asking if anyone else saw the shadows 'moving', at least four people start shrieking and insisting that they did. Enjolras looks frankly appalled that someone can talk so much garbage and yet still hold the majority of their audience in such thrall. Jehan has spaced out completely and is currently thinking about his cat and whether his neighbour is feeding her enough.

Finally, after three of these stops, they reach the street they were investigating earlier, which is really the only one they have any interest in. Based on what they've seen so far, though, Grantaire is not massively hopeful that they're going to learn anything of use here tonight.

“We can leave after this part, right?” he asks out of the corner of his mouth.

“Yes,” Enjolras says without argument.

The street isn't near any bars or clubs, and at this time of night all the quaint little boutiques are closed, and so it is completely deserted apart from their party, which makes it perhaps slightly creepier than it was in daylight, but no less ordinary-looking. The guide launches into an enthusiastic account of all the strange things that have been happening here, on what is apparently 'the most haunted street in Amsterdam right now', as if maybe that's a sought-after title they hand out once a year. At least most of the things he lists this time are things they know actually happened. He makes a great deal of the broken streetlights, gesturing to them with utter finality, as if they are the ultimate confirmation of the existence of an afterlife. When he eventually pauses for breath, Enjolras clears his throat.

“So if there's a ghost haunting this area,” he says, and Grantaire can almost _feel_ him battling to keep his tone pleasant and venom-free, “is there a theory as to who it is the ghost of?”

“I'm sorry?” The guide looks somewhat put-out at being interrupted.

“You said that ghosts are the spirits of our...ancestors.” Grantaire has to stifle a laugh when Enjolras forces the word out from between closed teeth. “So does anyone know who this particular ghost was when they were alive?”

The guide blinks at him, and then he chuckles jovially,  which is almost definitely a bad sign .

“Oh, young man, you miss the point,” he says. Grantaire sees _murder_ flash in Enjolras's eyes. “It is not the _identity_ of a spirit that matters, but rather their _actions._ When we pass into the spirit-world, we shed all earthly things, including our living identities. We become simply _essence –_ pure, spiritual energy. Spirits do not return to haunt those who might have known them in life; they return only to bring us vital messages from beyond the veil, to guide us.”

“...Right. My mistake,” Enjolras says. “And exactly what vital information are we supposed to interpret from the breaking of a few lights?”

There's a short silence, which Grantaire tries very,  _very_ hard not to break with the startled laughter he can feel bubbling behind his lips.

“Well, that's really not for me to say,” the guide says finally. He looks flustered and more than a little furious behind his showman's smile. “I merely celebrate and draw attention to the paranormal; you'd have to consult a medium if you want to truly understand the spirits.”

In a stroke of unbelievable luck, it turns out they have a bona-fide medium in the group with them tonight, and she is quick to volunteer her services. Grantaire can see that she doesn't have a psychic bone in her body, but she seems to genuinely believe that she does, and he'd really be happy to let her live with that delusion if it weren't for the fact that she is now explaining at agonisingly great length about how the destroying of the lights is a symbolic protest by the spirit-world against the living's dependence on technology and destruction of the natural environment.

He jumps when Jehan suddenly grabs his hand again – tightly, this time. Grantaire looks down at him and finds him looking back with wide eyes.

“Something's coming,” he says.

“Something?” Grantaire repeats. He casts a quick glance over at Enjolras, but he's still pretending to pay attention to the alleged medium. “What kind of something?”

It's around then that the temperature starts dropping, and fast. A few people in the group look around, puzzled, and rub absently at their arms.

“Jehan?” Grantaire says apprehensively. Ghosts aren't his specialty – given that they are not inherently evil and therefore are not something that can be destroyed with the correct application of Grace – but he gets the definite sense that something more than a little cold spot is about to happen here.

“There's someone in the water,” Jehan whispers. He's staring out at the nearby canal, at a dark patch of water left unlit by one of the broken streetlights.

“What?” Grantaire tries to follow his line of sight, and it takes him a moment but then _oh shit,_ he sees. There's a person bobbing motionless in the water – only above the surface to the eyes, which are looking right at them.

“You can see her, right?” Jehan says, and Grantaire really isn't sure how he can tell it's a woman but he's willing to trust him on it. “But can normal people see her?”

“I don't know, ask a normal person,” Grantaire says just as the remaining streetlights start to buzz and flicker off and on. He hears a collective gasp from the group, intermingled with a few nervous giggles. It's enough to shut the medium woman up, at least, and Enjolras manages to extract himself and return to them.

“What's happening?” he asks. It's now so cold that his breath puffs out in a cloud when he speaks.

“There's a girl in the water,” Jehan says in a small, distressed voice.

“ _What?_ ” Enjolras looks around wildly, as if wondering why no one is doing anything about that.

“I think he means a dead girl,” Grantaire says. “Our ghost.”

“Can you see her?” Jehan asks, pulling urgently on Enjolras's sleeve. “She's right there, can you see?”

“What? No, I can't see anything.” Enjolras shakes his head as his eyes search the empty surface of the water.

“Right.” Jehan nods absently. “That means no one else will see anything either, which is...probably best.”

“What's she doing?” Enjolras asks. The chains on the low fences bordering the canal start to sway and creak ominously despite the lack of wind, and his expression hardens. “What does she want?”

“I'd really need to ask her,” Jehan says.

“Don't you dare go over there,” Enjolras says sharply.

“I don't think she wants to come out.”

“Probably because she wants someone to come to the water's edge so that she can _drag them in._ ”

“She hasn't hurt anyone yet,” Jehan points out. Just then, Enjolras's EMF meter, which has been humming steadily but quietly in his pocket for the last few minutes, starts crackling and wailing in earnest. He takes it out and looks at it grimly.

“That's never a good sign,” he says.

Most of the group are now huddled together like a spooked flock of sheep a small distance away, looking unsure whether this is all part of the show or not. The guide is trying to keep his cool and act like he sees this kind of thing every night, but he's stammering quite pathetically and he stops speaking entirely when the EMF meter starts making a ruckus and just stares at it uncomprehendingly. A few people are filming the events on their phones, but they suddenly scream in unison, and Grantaire doesn't know what they're seeing on-screen, but a second later all the phones start emanating white noise at a deafening volume. And, worse, a faint, hissing voice starts to seep through the static, and it's saying  _go away. Go. Away!_

“I think we know what she wants,” Grantaire says.

“I really don't think we brought enough salt to make a ring big enough for all these people,” Enjolras says, watching the screaming, crying crowd with equal measures of concern and annoyance.

“You won't need to,” Jehan says. His voice is oddly serene, given the circumstances. “They'll be gone soon.”

That's when the display window of the nearest boutique explodes outwards.

“Oh _shit_!” Grantaire is quickest; he grabs both Enjolras and Jehan and hauls them down, instinctively tries to turn them away from the shower of glass because, hell, it doesn't matter if it hits _him_.

“ _What the fuck?”_ he hears their esteemed tour guide shriek. His voice gets fainter as he, along with the rest, turns tail and runs. _“This is fucked up! Fuck it, fuck this!”_

“You okay?” Grantaire asks Enjolras as the dust settles. He realises belatedly that his attempt to shield him with his own much less breakable body somehow turned into something awkwardly close to an embrace, with the two of them crouched on the ground with Enjolras's head practically tucked under his chin, and _whoops._ He stands up and backs off hastily.

“Um. Yeah, I'm fine, I-” Enjolras suddenly notices the one remaining member of the tour who is still standing gawping, and he glares at them. “What are you _doing?_ Get out of here!”

The guy doesn't need to be told twice. Enjolras shakes his head, then freezes.

“...Where's Jehan?” he asks in a tone that suggests he already knows. He and Grantaire look at each other, and then simultaneously turn towards the canal.

He's there, of course. On his knees and practically hanging over the edge. He's talking.

“Calm down, please,” Grantaire can hear him saying, but Enjolras probably can't. “It's alright, they're gone, and they weren't going to hurt you anyway, and neither are we...”

“Oh my God,” Enjolras blurts out. He goes to run over there – and drag Jehan back by the hair, Grantaire supposes – but he only gets one step before Grantaire grabs his wrist and pulls him back. Enjolras stops short and looks down at the hand holding him back like he can't quite believe what he's seeing.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“He knows what he's doing,” Grantaire says, gesturing towards Jehan. “You've got to let him do what you brought him here to do.”

Enjolras's mouth falls open.

“Are you _serious?_ ” he says, and he sounds furious and confused and betrayed. “There's a _ghost_ in that water-!”

“And she might not be dangerous.”

“And she might be! _Let go of me!_ ” Enjolras is struggling against his grip now. It's to no avail, of course, but it feels strange and wrong to fight against him when every instinct tells Grantaire to give him what he wants – because that's what he always does. But he knows they'll never be done with this case if Enjolras won't let their psychic go and, y'know, _be psychic._

“He wouldn't go over there if it wasn't safe,” he says. “He _knows,_ Enjolras.”

“You don't know what he knows! You hardly know him! Why aren't you letting go of me?” Enjolras sounds frantic now, and his soul is an explosion of anger and fear and sheer _disbelief._ He pulls harder against Grantaire's hold; the look in his eyes is akin to that of an animal caught in a trap. “He's not a hunter! We're supposed to protect him! _Let me go!_ ”

And Grantaire does let him go, not because he's particularly convinced by his argument, but because he can see exactly how much distress he's in, and Grantaire can't bear to be the cause of that. He hopes Jehan will forgive him.

Before either of them can get to Jehan, though, the spirit suddenly comes shooting out of the water and clamps her hands on his shoulders. That's what Grantaire sees, at least. If she still isn't visible to non-psychic humans, then he isn't sure what Enjolras is making of the disturbed water and the fact that Jehan is now dangling dangerously far over the edge.

The ghost puts her mouth next to Jehan's ear and whispers something, but Grantaire can't hear what she says over Enjolras's startled shout and running footsteps. She then gives Jehan a powerful shove, of the kind that no living human could ever hope to match – it throws him backwards, clear over the chain fence, and leaves him sprawled on his back, wheezing for breath, on the cobblestones.

Enjolras is at his side immediately, saying his name over and over, looking perhaps more terrified than Grantaire has ever seen him. He clearly wants to offer assistance of some kind but is worried about just hurting Jehan further, and his hands flutter uselessly in the air.

“Ow,” is all Jehan has to say, as he sits up slowly with a grimace. “That hurt.”

“You're lucky she didn't kill you,” Enjolras says. His fluttering hands close into shaking fists. “She _could_ have killed you, and I wouldn't have been able to stop it-” His eyes, bright and furious, find Grantaire. “What were you _thinking?_ ”

“I'm pretty sure he was thinking that you should trust your psychic,” Jehan says before Grantaire can even start to formulate a response. “She doesn't want to kill anyone, okay? She was never going to hurt me.”

“She just threw you across the street!”

“Not to hurt me!” Jehan snaps. He's rubbing at the back of his head, and Grantaire can distantly feel the throbbing pain there from hitting the ground, and he knows that it's only fuelling his annoyance. “I see more than you do, Enjolras! I know when it's safe and when it's not! If you can't believe that, then I don't know why you bothered bringing me here.”

He jumps to his feet despite his aches and pains and just walks away from them, the glass from the shattered shop window crunching beneath his feet. Grantaire feels like they should probably get away from here before the police show up to investigate that. Enjolras watches him go silently. He's breathing hard and his soul is more of a disaster-zone than Grantaire feels like decoding right now, but it's fairly easy to see that he isn't happy at all. Grantaire lays a tentative hand on his shoulder; Enjolras smacks it away with a vehemence that seems to surprise both of them.

“If you want to comfort someone, maybe it should be him,” Enjolras says shortly, pointing in the direction Jehan went. “Since it seems I'm the one in the wrong here.”

Grantaire snorts, puts his hands up.

“You know what?” he says. “Maybe I'll just go for a drink.”

“Right, yeah,” Enjolras says as he too starts to walk away. “I forgot that that's the answer to all your life's problems.”

Maybe that's a cruel thing to say, or maybe it's unfair, or maybe it's just true. Grantaire doesn't care. All he knows is that the warmly-lit bars of Amsterdam are a lot more welcoming than their cramped and ugly hotel room, and the same might be said for the company. He drinks and watches the laughing tourists, and then he drinks and laughs with them. He finds himself more interested in happy humans recently. Normally if he wanted to interact with humankind, he'd go to the most desolate, miserable hole he could find, perhaps because misery loves company, perhaps just to see his belief that life on this planet is a joyless punishment confirmed. But lately, he's started to notice people smiling more. He's even caught himself thinking that maybe the smiling moments aren't completely pointless in the face of the pain that is inevitably to come later. He doesn't know exactly what has caused this change in perspective, but it's certainly refreshing after so many years of steadfast pessimism, so he's happy to let it be what it is.

He falls in with a group of Irish students here on holiday; he tells them that he's from Norway, that he's on a gap year and backpacking around Europe, that he hopes to be a high school history teacher someday – he pulls the bits and pieces of his life story from stories and memories and just out of thin air, and if he contradicts himself once or twice they're all too drunk to notice. And it's nice, to lie like this, to play pretend when there's nothing at stake – to be someone other than himself, just for the night. If he adds enough detail to the story, it almost starts to feel real. And they like him – or the fake-him, or whatever – and they drink with him and they teach him bawdy songs (all of which he's heard a thousand times before, but he doesn't mind – he laughs with real delight and faked shock). And when they've had enough and go back to their hostel, he says goodbye and goes his own way. He doesn't go back to the hotel, because Enjolras is angry at him, and he's still wondering exactly why – because he thinks he put Jehan in danger? Or just because Grantaire didn't do as he was told?

He ends up perched, invisible, on the roof of the Royal Palace, watching the revellers go home to sleep and the working people waking up to start the day. He supposes it would be a better use of his time to go back to that street and see what he can find, but he'd hate to step on Jehan's toes. And, in any case, he'd much rather watch the sunrise.

Sometimes he wonders how it can be that he's seen literally millions of sunrises, and yet still finds them beautiful. Most days he doesn't bothering pondering it, though. It ruins it, he finds.

When it is officially, undeniably morning, he heaves a sigh of defeat and returns to the ground. He supposes he'll have to face the music sooner or later, and it might as well be now.

For the first time, he forgets to pick up coffee, which makes him question whether he's deliberately making this worse for himself. However, it turns out not to matter, because when he steps into the hotel room, Enjolras and Jehan are sitting at the tiny table, upon which there are already three cups of coffee.

Enjolras has short hair, he notices with slight surprise. It's a decent enough haircut, too, so he supposes that means that he and Jehan are friends again.

He isn't sure if they were talking before he came in, but there is most definitely a heavy silence as he comes inside and shuts the door behind him. Jehan looks up at him from his breakfast and offers him a sweet, sunny smile, even as he mentally assaults him with a hangover-aggravating, reproving psychic blow. Grantaire tries not to wince too obviously.

_You shouldn't_ worry  _him like that,_ Jehan is telling him, and it takes Grantaire a moment to figure out he means Enjolras.  _He doesn't know you're invincible._

Grantaire sends a retaliatory rough nudge back at him, to make it clear that he's pretty sure Enjolras was not remotely concerned.

Enjolras doesn't look angry either, though, so that's something. He's still not _right;_ his soul has gone back to the strange way it looked yesterday, with its thin film of normal gold stretched over something that he doesn't want to look at, but it looks calmer, somehow. More under control. He looks up at Grantaire with an expression he can't quite read.

“There's food,” he says, gesturing to the containers on the table. “If you want some.”

“No, thanks,” Grantaire says, because he can't summon the energy for the pretence of eating right now. He does sit down, though, and Enjolras pushes a cup of coffee towards him uncertainly.

“Thanks,” Grantaire mutters, not really sure what to make of this situation. He wishes it was a normal morning so that he could say something stupid about Enjolras's hair. It's cute like this, with the curls just brushing the tops of his ears. He liked it long too, though. And he thinks that, for a celestial being, he's really become far too interested in Enjolras's physical self.

He sips the coffee, just for something to do. It's strong and black and sugary, the way he always drinks it, because he doesn't need the caffeine but that doesn't mean he doesn't have a taste preference. He likes strong flavours, he likes to experiment with taste, because he likes to use his human vessel's senses to their full capacity. He wonders how they knew what kind of coffee to get him, then he remembers that Jehan probably got it, and Jehan is psychic.

The silence stretches on a little longer. Enjolras has stopped eating and is just sort of fidgeting. Just when it looks to be becoming unbearable, Jehan stands up and, without a word of explanation, psychically or otherwise, leaves the room.

Grantaire looks at Enjolras questioningly.

“...Sorry I shouted at you,” Enjolras says quietly. Grantaire blinks. Then frowns.

“Huh?” he says.

“This case has me stressed out. I'm used to hunting things, and that's not what we're doing here, and to be honest I don't really know what I'm doing. And then there's Jehan, and I worry a lot about Jehan, not because I don't trust him, but just...because.” Enjolras's eyes are fixed on the tabletop and his words are coming machine-gun fast. “But I shouldn't have got angry at you. So I'm sorry.”

“It's...fine?” Grantaire's frown deepens; he feels like he's awaiting the punchline here. “I shouldn't have, y'know, intervened. Wasn't my place.”

“No, you were right,” Enjolras says. “You were right and I was just...being stupid.”

“Are you alright?” Grantaire asks nervously.

Enjolras's soul comes very close to bubbling over with frustration – but it doesn't. He takes a deep breath, reins it in.

“No,” he says patiently. “I feel like shit. That's why I'm apologising.”

“You don't need to apologise to me,” Grantaire says.

“I feel like I drove you away last night,” Enjolras goes on. “That was shitty of me.”

Grantaire just shrugs, because maybe that's true, but he hadn't been _angry,_ only avoiding Enjolras's anger. And he had a good enough night, in the end. He hadn't been planning on complaining.

“Have you slept at all?” Enjolras asks.

“Yeah, I slept,” Grantaire replies, because he can't be bothered faking a nap, either.

“Oh.” Enjolras blinks.

“What?”

“Nothing. You just...weren't here.” Enjolras shrugs.

“There are other beds in Amsterdam,” Grantaire reminds him. He's mostly joking and is taken-aback when Enjolras twitches slightly.

“Right. Right, of course,” Enjolras says hastily, looking away. Silence descends again. Grantaire takes another slurp of coffee just to make it marginally less painful. At length, Enjolras seems to find it in him to look at him again.

“Is the coffee okay?” he asks. Grantaire blinks.

“You got this?” he says. Enjolras shrugs and goes red. Grantaire finds himself smiling in merry disbelief. “You know how I take my coffee?”

“Don't say that like it's creepy that I know,” Enjolras complains, rolling his eyes and still red in the face. “We basically live together, don't we?”

“...Yeah, I guess we do.” Grantaire settles back and fights down a grin. Then, because Enjolras is huffing and embarrassed anyway, he reaches out and pulls on one of his curls, making it bounce. “And look, you've been shorn.”

“Yeah. Much more practical this way.” Enjolras rakes a hand across his scalp, and it seems crazy but Grantaire could swear he looks self-conscious, and if he was braver he'd tell him _you're beautiful, you know,_ but he's not so he doesn't.

“Jehan's handiwork?” he asks instead.

“Yeah.”

“Not bad. Maybe I should ask him to give me a trim, too.”

“What for? Your hair never seems to grow.” Enjolras says it with mild annoyance and absolutely no suspicion, but it still makes Grantaire laugh far too nervously, and he's highly relieved when Jehan chooses that moment to come bursting back in.

“Are you two good now?” he asks from the threshold. He's already poking around in Grantaire's head and playing the whole conversation back for his viewing pleasure, but he makes a good show of being genuinely uncertain.

Enjolras doesn't say anything. It takes Grantaire a long moment to realise that he's waiting for him to answer. He's starting to regret not being here last night because seriously, did something happen to bring this on? He thinks Jehan might know, but Jehan is pointedly giving him absolutely nothing through their mind-to-mind link.

“Yeah, we're...fine? Good? Fantastic?” he says finally with a slightly panicked smile. Thankfully this seems to satisfy; Enjolras relaxes and Jehan gives a sigh of relief.

“Thank goodness,” Jehan says, coming back to the table and setting a laptop down at his place. “So we're all friends again. Unless you're cross with me?”

“I was never cross with anyone,” Grantaire says.

_Of course you weren't,_ Jehan thinks but does not say out loud.

“What's happening with the case?” Grantaire asks in an attempt to restore some vestige of normality to this breakfast time.

“Still can't find any records of a recent violent death on that street,” Enjolras says.

“We were looking at it wrong, I think,” Jehan says, tapping away on the keyboard. “She wasn't on the street. She was in the water. So it could be that she died in the water.”

“You think she drowned?” Enjolras asks, frowning.

“Maybe.”

“Is that likely? How many people drown in the Amsterdam canals...?”

“Fifty-one in the last three years,” Jehan answers promptly, nodding at the laptop screen. “I mean, according to Google.”

“It's not a nice way to go, but would it be enough to trap a spirit here?” Enjolras says.

“It says here that all but one of those fifty-one drownings were reported as accidents,” Jehan says.

“Do you think this girl was the one exception?”

“No.” Jehan shakes his head. “I think that if you want to kill someone in this city and make it look like an accident, you make sure they end up in a canal.”

E njolras looks at him curiously; Grantaire does the same even though he's more or less getting a live feed of Jehan's thought process. Jehan turns his laptop towards them.

“There is a report of a woman drowning in the canal that runs alongside that street,” he says. “Her name was Rita Todosioska, she was here on holiday with friends, they were walking back to their hotel after a night out when she fell in the water. They were all drunk at the time, which I guess is why the police were so quick to call it an accident.”

“You don't agree?” Enjolras asks, scanning the report and the accompanying photo of the young woman in question.

“No, I don't.” Jehan's expression becomes grim. “I think she was murdered. It _feels_ like she was murdered.”

“A non-violent spirit of a murder victim,” Grantaire muses. “Hm. Are we still calling her non-violent? She did throw you pretty far.”

“If she'd wanted to kill me, she'd have pulled me into the water, not pushed me away from it,” Jehan points out. “I think maybe she was trying to get me away from the water, since it's where she died. Maybe she feels it's dangerous.”

“Alright, so a non-violent spirit of a murder victim,” Grantaire says. “A rusalka?”

“Exactly.” Jehan nods.

“A what?” Enjolras looks slightly peeved, as he always does whenever there's a mention of a monster he hasn't heard of.

“Very specific type of spirit,” Jehan says. “From Slavic mythology, originally. Always female. Always tied to water.”

“Do you know how to deal with them?” Enjolras asks. Grantaire can practically hear him praying for it to be a simple salt-and-burn and feels sympathetic about the disappointment he's about to get.

“The only way she can move on is if her death is avenged,” Jehan says almost apologetically.

“What?” Enjolras looks about as despondent as Grantaire would have expected. “What does that involve?”

“Bringing her killer to justice, at the very least.”

Enjolras is silent for what feels like a long time, which is sort of ominous. Then he takes a deep breath.

“That's...not our area of expertise,” he says finally.

“I know,” Jehan says. “Avoiding the legitimate authorities is what hunters do best. And solving a murder committed by a human isn't something any of us have much experience at. Unless Grantaire was a homicide detective in another life?”

“Afraid not,” Grantaire says. “Psychic powers might go a long way, though. Gives us an advantage over other amateur detectives.”

“Finding out the truth isn't the problem, though; the problem is proving it.” Jehan sighs. “We can't exactly go to the police and tell them that I'm, y'know, super-psychic and that one accidental drowning was actually a murder and, oh yeah, I know who did it. We need evidence. Unless we're just going to go all vigilante justice on the culprit, but that's not really our style when it comes to human beings, is it?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Enjolras says.

“It's strange, isn't it?” Jehan says. “A monster kills a human, so you kill the monster. A human kills another human and...somehow it's different. Seems to me we should decide who's a monster and who isn't based on what they do, not on what they are.”

“No,” Grantaire says shortly. He knows this is aimed at him, and he knows Jehan means well, but...no. “Not every human is a murderer. Monsters are killers as a species. If a species is designed for nothing but killing, they should be hunted.”

He wonders if he'd be happy or horrified to see the angels hunted. They are still his family, in some distant, abstract way, and it pained him to his core when so many were wiped out by Castiel and whatever other monstrosity had infected his Grace, but he saw what they'd become before he left. Cold, pitiless and horribly cruel. Their disdain for humans had become boundless, and they killed them when the urge got too strong. They would wrap it up in sermons and excuses and talk of divine punishment, but Grantaire thinks that they just couldn't stand to see the human race doing too well. So they gave the orders to smite and kill, and the rest of them obeyed, and he wishes he could say that he was not one of those who obeyed but he _was._ He brought death upon the Earth along with his brothers and sisters, and he knows he will never forget the things he saw, the things they _did._ He remembers the countless bodies floating, bloated and with glassy half-open eyes, in the waters of the Great Flood; he remembers the agonised wailing of thousands of desperate people on the brink of death because all the water was _blood_ and all the livestock had been struck dead with disease and locusts were consuming everything else. It makes him wonder how he can sit here with two humans and act as if he is their friend and not their natural predator. Surely that, along with everything else, makes him a monster?

“But there are exceptions, aren't there?” Enjolras says suddenly. Grantaire blinks.

“What?” he asks.

“There are exceptions. Monsters who don't want to hurt anyone, and so shouldn't be hunted.” Enjolras looks a little uncertain. “That's why we're here, right?”

Grantaire manages to laugh.

“Never thought I'd hear that from you,” he says. “But alright, yes, there are exceptions. But that still doesn't mean we can just hunt down and kill whoever murdered this girl.”

“We should probably worry about finding out who killed her before we worry too much about what we're going to do about it,” Jehan says. “One step at a time, and all that.”

“Maybe you two should go back to where you saw her, then,” Enjolras says. “See if you can get her to talk.”

“You don't want to come?” Jehan asks, frowning.

“If there's nothing to hunt, then I won't be much use.” Enjolras smiles and shrugs like this really doesn't bother him, but that thin gold layer around his soul looks so stretched and strained that Grantaire fully expects it to burst at any moment. “I'm sure I can find something to do around here. Research. Or something.”

Grantaire can't help but feel a little doubtful about that, as well as highly confused as to why he isn't the one being left behind, but the morning has been odd enough so far and he doesn't want to make it worse by arguing.  Jehan looks like he  _ wants  _ to argue, but in the end just shakes his head like he really doesn't have the energy. He puts his laptop away, and then he and Grantaire head out onto Vossiusstraat.

“You know Enjolras thinks you slept in my room last night, right?” Jehan says as they go along.

“What?” Grantaire says.

“And you know this is him 'giving us space', right?”

“What?” Grantaire says again.

Jehan looks at him with a pained expression and says no more about it.

“Did you and Enjolras talk while I was gone last night?” Grantaire asks instead of pursuing whatever warped string of thought Jehan had been following.

“You know we did,” Jehan says, smiling faintly. “Not least because he wouldn't have got a haircut if we hadn't talked first.”

There's something like a locked door in front of the memories of the conversation, letting Grantaire know that it's something private, and he could break the door down without even trying but he doesn't and he won't.

“I can't help but be curious as to exactly what you said to him,” he admits. “He doesn't seem himself today.”

“He seems exactly like himself,” Jehan says.

“You think?”

“I know.” Jehan nods. “I didn't put any ideas in his head or guilt-trip him or whatever you're thinking. We just talked, and he decided what he wanted to do, and what he wanted to do was make things alright between the two of you.”

“I wasn't even angry,” Grantaire snorts.

“Maybe not, but disappearing for the night sort of makes it seem like you are,” Jehan says with a shrug. “With Enjolras, all I did was tell him that if he thought that was the right thing to do, he should do it and be clear about it. Not many people are lucky enough to have a mutually psychic bond going on, after all.” He nudges Grantaire's arm as they walk, sending a happy little pulse through their linked minds. “Most people have to work a little harder to understand each other. I'm all about good communication. You should think about that, too.”

Grantaire nods dubiously. He'd always known that humans are sort of odd – sort of fundamentally different from angels – but he was never truly aware of how very complicated they are until he met these two.

On the haunted street, the shattered glass from the night before has been swept up and the broken window covered by a large sheet of plastic. Apart from that, it's hard to believe that anything ever happened here. It looks utterly unassuming in the light of day.

“Do you have a plan?” Grantaire asks.

“I just want to try and talk to her,” Jehan says with a shrug. “She seemed really scared last night, but there were a lot of people here. Maybe she'll be more talkative if it's just me.”

“I'll hang back, then.”

“You don't think she'll want to talk to an angel?” Jehan asks.

“As I keep telling you, angels don't live up to the reputation that humans have assigned to them,” Grantaire says. He goes to sit on the bench where they sat together yesterday. “I'll wait over here.”

Unfortunately, it seems that their ghost is feeling even shyer now than last night. Grantaire can hear Jehan softly calling her by name as he walks up and down the water's edge, but he seems to get no response whatsoever. The ghost doesn't manifest – which is probably a blessing given that someone would probably notice something like that – and she doesn't reach out psychically either. It's like she's just gone again, and in the end Jehan comes to sit next to Grantaire with a defeated sigh. He was getting some odd looks from passersby, who probably think he's drunk or ate one too many brownies, but Jehan hasn't paid them any mind. Grantaire supposes that, sadly, he must be used to people looking at him like that by now.

“No luck, huh?” he says.

“I don't understand,” Jehan says, shaking his head.

“Maybe she's nocturnal,” Grantaire says, and he's only joking but Jehan frowns thoughtfully.

“Why, though?” he says. “There would have to be a reason. Why would she only come out at night?”

Grantaire hums and shrugs.

“Why does she come out at all?” he says. “Do you know why she appeared during the tour last night?”

“I...” Jehan pauses, looking doubtful. “She was scared. I thought she just didn't like the crowd.”

“Why, though?” Grantaire prompts. “Rusalki aren't known for being territorial. Why would she want to chase people away?”

“Do you know something?” Jehan asks him, prodding at his mind to see if he's hiding something.

“No more than you,” Grantaire says. “Some things just don't add up. I'm just asking the questions.”

Jehan is quiet for a long time. His thoughts are troubled and lead him in frustrating circles, but then, finally, there's a flash of inspiration so sudden and bright that Grantaire nearly jumps.

“She was saying 'go away',” Jehan says, twisting around on the bench to look out at the still water of the canal. “The echoes I heard, and the voice coming through those people's phones, it was 'go away', over and over.”

“Right?” Grantaire says uncertainly.

“When she pushed me away from the water, she didn't say 'go away'; she said ' _get_ away'. 'You need to get away', that's what she said.” Jehan's thoughts are rushing by in a blur now. “It's...she's not scared of us, or crowds, or people. It's something else. It's _here,_ it's something about the street and the water and night-time. Something about it scares her, and she's trying to keep people away.”

“She died here, in the water, at night-time,” Grantaire reminds him. “She doesn't have the best associations with this place. It could be that.”

“Maybe?” Jehan doesn't look convinced, though. “I wish I could ask her.”

“There's really no way for you to talk to her unless she comes out?”

“Technically I could summon her. We know her name and I have everything we'd need back at the hotel. But forcing her to manifest isn't exactly going to endear us to her, is it?” Jehan twists his mouth from side to side, thinking, thinking. “She might be able to hear me. Just now, I mean. She's tethered to this spot, so even if she can't or won't come out right now, she still might be able to hear.”

He seems to think it's worth a try; he goes back to the water's edge and he talks to the empty air – he addresses the ghost of Rita Todosioska in English, since he judges that is most likely to be their common language, and he tells her his name, and Grantaire's name and Enjolras's name, and he tells her that they are here to help her, and that he only wants to talk to her. He gets more strange looks. When he's done, he turns around to see Grantaire looking coolly at a trio of teenaged boys watching with raised eyebrows. Jehan just gives them a polite smile and tugs Grantaire to his feet.

“Don't worry about people staring,” he says as they resume walking. “I'm more than used to it.”

“Where are we going now?” Grantaire asks when he notices that they are heading in the opposite direction from their hotel.

“Anywhere,” Jehan says. “You know, I hear there are shops that just sell Dutch cheese around here. A whole shop. Just cheese. And you can try the cheese. We should find one of those.”

“Won't Enjolras consider that truanting?” Grantaire asks, amused.

“He might. But I don't think there's much else we can do about the case right now, is there? And I feel like we shouldn't go back to the hotel yet. I think Enjolras wants to be alone just now.” Jehan pauses and frowns. “Actually, I'm not totally sure what Enjolras wants. Even being psychic, he is very hard to get a read on. And he's even worse than usual just now. I don't think even he knows what he wants. But some alone time might do him good.”

“You know better than me,” Grantaire says. He's quite well-versed in the art of not having a clue what to do with Enjolras. “Am I ever going to get the story of how you two met?”

“It's not the story of how we met that you want,” Jehan laughs, sifting easily through their shared headspace for Grantaire's real question. “You want to know what came after. Why he lets me boss him around and such.”

“You two seem very close, and he isn't the easiest person to get close to,” Grantaire says.

“Well, that's hunters for you, isn't it? Danger follows them everywhere, so they keep everyone at arm's length. I always feel bad for them.” Jehan looks mournful, but then something catches his eye and his expression brightens. “Look, that shop has a lot of cheese in the window. This is promising.”

He scampers inside and is clearly delighted to find that the rumours were true and that there are in fact free samples of just about every type of cheese imaginable. Grantaire lets him go stuff his face, but watches him expectantly until he gives up pretending not to notice and sighs.

“It's awkward, okay? I don't know how much Enjolras wants to keep private,” he says.

“Maybe you shouldn't say anything, then. He doesn't like me to know much of anything,” Grantaire says. “He was ever so cross when I discovered the existence of his pre-hunting friends.”

“His college friends? You met them?”

“Glimpsed them, more like. I didn't talk to them much.”

“Still! I've never met them.”

“As I said, he was very cross that I did.”

Jehan snorts and rolls his eyes.

“If he really didn't want you to know they existed, he'd have made you wait in another country while he went to Lyon,” he says.

When they finally leave the cheese shop, Jehan unexpectedly relents.

“With Enjolras and I, there was a definite turning point,” he says suddenly. “When we first met, he wasn't sure what to think of me. And I thought he was so _scary._ It's funny in hindsight, because now I know that he was, like, just a baby hunter back then. A _novice._ But at the time he seemed so intimidating!”

“So what changed?” Grantaire asks.

“Nothing good.” Jehan shakes his head sadly. “It was after Feuilly got killed. I was...upset. He was always nice to me. And, y'know, saved my life a few times. But I wasn't as close to him as Enjolras was. Enjolras was a mess.”

Grantaire doesn't voice any scepticism. Just yesterday he'd doubted that Enjolras had grieved much for his mentor, but that was before he saw him completely lose his head because he thought Jehan might be in danger. And he finds himself thinking back to Lyon, and Enjolras's steely determination to protect his friends, and he knows that he was wrong to doubt. Enjolras doesn't let himself get attached to many people, but when it does happen, they become the most important people in his world.

“He was a mess, but he pretended not to be, and threw himself straight back into hunting. And, of course, immediately got hurt. You can't hunt if you're not focused. I...” Jehan hesitates. “I went to find him. I just had a feeling, you know? I'm not often psychic in _that_ way but sometimes I just know I have to go somewhere, I have to do something. I knew he was in trouble. I found him in a hospital in Switzerland. Everyone thought he was dead, you know. His phone got broken while he was fighting whatever monster it was that got him, and he hadn't tried to call Combeferre from the hospital.”

And that, perhaps more than anything, gives Grantaire an idea of how bad Enjolras's mental state must have been at the time. He can't imagine Enjolras failing to check in with Combeferre.

“I made him come home with me, and I made him stay a while,” Jehan is saying. He smiles fondly as he remembers. He's pointedly not showing Grantaire any images through their mind-link, though; apparently the story is just a little too personal for that. “That was when he learned I'm not a pushover, and that was when I learned he wasn't so scary after all. He needed help, and I decided he was going to get it whether he liked it or not.” He laughs. “I held him hostage for a few months at least. Made sure he ate and slept. He learned to take care of himself because he knew if he didn't, I'd do it for him. It was...I don't know. It was a sad time, but we were both less sad by the end of it.”

“Thank you,” Grantaire says, which probably seems like a weird thing to say but it feels very important. “If you hadn't done that, I get the feeling that I never would have met him.”

Jehan blushes and ducks his head.

“Also,” he says, moving on swiftly, “he's not very good at understanding his own feelings. A lot of the time, I think he just doesn't want to look at them at all. He thought he could just ignore how sad he was, but he was wrong. He had to look at it, had to come through it. A psychic friend is helpful with that sort of thing.”

“That must have been fun for both of you,” Grantaire remarks grimly.

“I'm telling you this so that you understand for sure that he is only human,” Jehan says. “I think that you forget that sometimes, maybe. I know he tries to act strong, but he can't be strong all the time.” He shoots Grantaire a smile. “I need to know you're looking after him when I'm not around, okay?”

“I can usually protect him from monsters,” Grantaire snorts. “But I can't look after him like you do.”

“I think you're doing a pretty good job,” Jehan says contentedly. “I'm really glad he has you, you know.”

“I'm pretty glad too,” Grantaire says. “It's a shame, really, that he isn't.”

Jehan just rolls his eyes again.

“I don't know if this is a psychic hunch or just wishful thinking, but I don't think anything is going to happen with our ghost at least until it gets dark,” he says, latching onto Grantaire's arm. “So come on, I want to look at dumb souvenirs.”

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We need to go,” Jehan says. “She's shouting for us.”
> 
> “The ghost?”
> 
> “Yeah, I told her we'd help, told her we'd come...” Jehan shakes his head sharply and gets to his feet. “Something's wrong, we need to _go_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HERE I AM AT LAST.
> 
> And so many lovely things to share! People keep making beautiful things for this story and I'm so amazed, seriously.
> 
> Art by [iamawildgrantaire](http://www.iamawildgrantaire.tumblr.com): [Grantaire](http://iamawildgrantaire.tumblr.com/post/79118244912/angel-r-under-my-wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiings) | [Jehan](http://iamawildgrantaire.tumblr.com/post/81816814539/apparently-im-all-about-under-my-wings-at-the) | [Grantaire + Jehan](http://iamawildgrantaire.tumblr.com/post/70551024075/under-my-wings-updated) | [Grantaire + Enjolras](http://iamawildgrantaire.tumblr.com/post/81789692341/under-my-wiiiiiiings-read-the-fic-x-w-angel-r)
> 
> [Intensely beautiful Enjolras + Grantaire](http://hawberries.tumblr.com/post/85896905557) by [hawberries](http://www.hawberries.tumblr.com)
> 
> [Grantaire](http://dontcallmeeuphrasie.tumblr.com/post/86659547255/wow-i-love-colors-also-angel-grantaire-a-la) by [dontcallmeeuphrasie](http://www.dontcallmeeuphrasie.tumblr.com)
> 
> [Jehan photoset](http://whatisthecat.tumblr.com/post/79050286349/under-my-wings-you-will-find-refuge-les) by [whatisthecat](http://www.whatisthecat.tumblr.com)
> 
> SO MANY BEAUTIFUL THINGS.
> 
> Also, I got a few requests for ficlets relating to this AU and those are on my tumblr:
> 
> [Grantaire and Combeferre's First Meeting(s)](http://fivie.tumblr.com/post/83790755513/anon-requested-grantaire-and-combeferres-first#notes)
> 
> [Feuilly and Bahorel Before Everything Was Terrible](http://fivie.tumblr.com/post/81540688241/hello-i-was-wondering-if-you-were-in-need-of-any#notes)
> 
> I hope you guys like those, too. And also the new chapter. I hope it doesn't disappoint.

 

 

 

~

“I can't believe you bought ornamental clogs,” Grantaire remarks as he and Jehan finally leave the last in a long, long line of souvenir shops.

“What would you rather I bought? A t-shirt declaring how much I enjoyed the red-light district?” Jehan laughs, stowing his purchases away in his bag.

“They had some nice hash pipes.”

“Maybe I've already got one of those at home,” Jehan says, and Grantaire has to peek inside his head to see if he's joking or not. He isn't.

“Clogs, though,” he persists. “Sort of cliché.”

“They're pretty. It's a nice cliché,” Jehan informs him. He bought lots of tulip bulbs, too. He told Grantaire that his house has a big garden, and that he spends a lot of time taking care of it. Grantaire said he'd like to see it someday.

“It's getting late. Should we go back to the hotel?” Grantaire asks. Jehan hums for a moment.

“No,” he says finally. “Let's drag Enjolras out.”

“Out?”

“For food! We should eat out. Instead of smuggling stuff up to our rooms like barbarians.”

“Good luck convincing him,” Grantaire says with a dry smile.

“Oh, I'll convince him.”

And, somehow, he does. They pick a place (Italian – ironically, there appears to be a shortage of actual Dutch eateries here in Amsterdam) and find a table and after some time Enjolras joins them. He looks sort of confused by this notion they've taken – after all, eating to Enjolras is a matter of fuel and survival and necessity, not pleasure – but doesn't say anything about it. Grantaire considers standing up and making a big dumb show of pulling a chair out for him, but Jehan apparently sees what he's thinking and gives him a good, psychic smack.

 _Don't you dare, you'll spook him,_ he silently scolds.

...Whatever that means. Grantaire leans back in his seat and instead just raises a hand in lazy greeting as Enjolras sits down.

“Any particular reason for this?” he asks, eyeing the two of them suspiciously.

“I felt like being civilised,” Jehan tells him. “And I've seen how much pizza you can eat. Don't even pretend to be annoyed.”

“So you do have some foods you like more than others,” Grantaire says triumphantly. “I knew it.”

Enjolras blinks and looks at him oddly.

“I don't remember ever saying that I didn't,” he says.

“What? But.” Grantaire flaps his hands in frustration. “I always ask you what kind of food you want, and you always say it doesn't matter!”

“Well. It doesn't,” Enjolras says, shrugging.

Grantaire lets out a pained whine.

“There, there,” Jehan says, hiding his smile behind a menu. “I know all his secrets. He likes strawberries, too.”

“That's not a _secret_ ,” Enjolras mutters.

“You promised me you'd take care of yourself,” Jehan says chidingly, poking his arm. “That involves enjoying yourself occasionally, you know.”

“Where are we at with the case?” Enjolras asks, artfully changing the subject. “Did you two find anything?”

“No sign of the spirit,” Jehan tells him. “Current theory is that she only comes out at night, but I haven't figured out why that would be yet. Anything at your end?”

“Nothing,” Enjolras says dully. Grantaire isn't surprised. He suspects Enjolras was probably reduced to watching cat videos on youtube, if he stayed in the hotel all day.

“Maybe another tour will show up to antagonise her tonight,” Grantaire says. “That should keep us from getting too bored.”

“Not the same tour, though,” Jehan says with a snigger. “I don't think that guy is going to lead another ghost tour for as long as he lives.”

After some time, Grantaire is struck by the surprising realisation that this is shaping up to be a very ordinary meal. They eat, and are careful to talk about things that wouldn't sound concerning to any normal person who might overhear. Jehan laughs frequently; Enjolras less so, but he wears a small smile and his soul looks more relaxed than it has since they arrived in Amsterdam. The three of them look no different from any other group of people in this restaurant. For a moment, it'd be easy to pretend that they are just three friends here on vacation, and not a hunter, a psychic and a monster here on their own particular brand of business.

The illusion is shattered somewhat when he manages to steer the topic of conversation around to how Enjolras and Jehan met. Because maybe the part where they properly became friends was more interesting, but he wants to hear this part too – he likes to hear any story about Enjolras when he was younger, when he was maybe a little less _consumed_ by the hunting lifestyle. Enjolras and Jehan exchange looks when he asks.

“You tell it better than I do,” Jehan says.

“But we've never told it before,” Enjolras says, looking puzzled.

Jehan rolls his eyes and promptly stuffs his mouth full of pasta before holding up his hands as if to say, _oh dear, I seem to be unable to speak right now._ Enjolras sighs.

“It was in...late '08?” he says with a thoughtful frown. “I hadn't been hunting for very long. Feuilly was still teaching me. And we got sent to this tiny little town in the south of France...”

“My town!” Jehan interjects brightly after mightily swallowing everything in his mouth.

“Jehan's town,” Enjolras agrees with a small smile. “Though I think, at the time, you'd have preferred to be just about anywhere else.”

“I wasn't loving life, no.”

“The place was crawling with demons,” Enjolras says. “I've never seen so many in one place. We knew something was _weird_ almost as soon as we arrived, but when we realised that most of the town was possessed...”

“Not me, though,” Jehan says.

“No, you were doing a good job of lying low.”

“I wasn't doing a good job of much else though. See, at the time, I didn't know there were people out there crazy enough to want to hunt monsters full time, so I didn't know there was anyone I could call for help. All I knew was that something wasn't right and that I should duck and cover.”

“You can tell when someone is possessed?” Grantaire asks.

“Of course. I'd be a pretty useless psychic if I couldn't see something like _that._ ”

“How did you manage to hide from them?”

“The ghost I lived with taught me how to make hex bags.” Jehan waves a hand flippantly and moves on before Grantaire can question that. “But anyway. The town was full of demons, I was hiding, and then my two heroes came charging to the rescue.”

“Not quite,” Enjolras says dryly. “We probably would have got killed or possessed ourselves if you hadn't come and got us off the street.”

“It was a team effort,” Jehan says happily.

“The demons had some...plan,” Enjolras goes on. “The town has one church. I'm sure you know churches are holy ground. For whatever reason, the demons were targeting the church. They were planning this ritual to...hm. To defile it, I suppose? Make it unholy. I don't know why that church or why that town but that's what they were doing.”

“What was the ritual?” Grantaire asks, already knowing.

“Killing everyone, basically,” Enjolras says. “I'm sure there was a bit more to it than that, but that was the part we were concerned about.”

“But you stopped them?”

“Yeah.” Enjolras's smile widens briefly – the lingering pride of a job well done and many lives saved. “Between the three of us, we pulled it off.”

Grantaire stares at the two of them in wonder. They're probably aware that they accomplished quite a feat that day, but he doesn't think they know exactly how great a feat. He remembers 2008 as a very bad year – the year the angels touched down on Earth for the first time in memory, and the year that the demons set about breaking the sixty-six seals necessary to free Lucifer from his prison. 2008 was like the pre-drinks before the Apocalypse party of the following year.

Defiling holy ground is one of the seals, that much Grantaire knows. Enjolras and his friends prevented a seal from being broken. He wishes he could impress upon them how big a deal that is. Even if it ultimately made no difference.

“Sounds like a great bonding experience,” he says instead.

“It was memorable, that's for sure,” Enjolras says.

“And then!” Jehan pipes up. “After all was said and done, the two of them went and got rid of my ghost.”

Enjolras says nothing, but his gaze drops to the table and his soul gives a small shudder, as if this is something he'd rather not be reminded of.

“Yes, you keep mentioning this ghost of yours,” Grantaire says.

“She haunted my house,” Jehan tells him. “When she was alive, she was psychic, too. She was nice. She taught me a lot of stuff.”

“Feuilly was worried she'd go vengeful, eventually,” Enjolras mutters. “And turn on you, maybe.”

“Uh huh. And you both thought I was a dumb kid caught under her spell, I know.” Jehan's tone is light enough, but Grantaire gets the impression that this is genuinely quite a sore spot between them. “Though I guess I encouraged that idea with all the crying I did after.”

“I still think it was for the best,” Enjolras says uncomfortably. “But we should have talked to you about it first. Given you a chance to say goodbye.”

“Yeah, life would be so much easier if people would just talk to each other,” Jehan says. Grantaire is almost sure that his eyes flick pointedly between him and Enjolras as he says it. “I guess it was for the best. I don't think she'd have gone vengeful, but she was trapped here and I didn't know how to...to...”

He trails off, looking over his shoulder and out the nearby window with a slow frown.

“...Jehan?” Enjolras says after a moment. Grantaire notices for the first time, with a feeling of trepidation, that they've lost track of time, and that it is very dark outside. Night-time.

“We need to go,” Jehan says. “She's shouting for us.”

“The _ghost?_ ”

“Yeah, I told her we'd help, told her we'd come...” Jehan shakes his head sharply and gets to his feet. “Something's wrong, we need to _go._ ”

“Right.” Enjolras throws a pile of banknotes down on their table and they hurry out of the restaurant.

When they reach the haunted street, it is immediately apparent that something is indeed wrong. There is a small cluster of people gathered at the canal bank, staring into the water and making a lot of distressed-sounding noise. The spirit is floating in the water almost directly under their noses, but they don't seem to be able to see her – which means, presumably, that Enjolras won't be able to see her either. Grantaire is so grateful that they have Jehan here to non-suspiciously bridge their gap in perception.

The spirit notices them. She disappears, and then just as quickly reappears a little further upstream, closer to them. She reaches towards them with her pale arms but, as they had suspected, she seems unable to leave the water. She looks like she's crying. Grantaire, millennia-old angel or not, had had no idea that spirits could cry.

“Please, help,” she says. Water runs out of her mouth when she speaks, making her voice garbled. “ _Please_.”

By now, the group at the water's edge have noticed them too, and one of them – a girl in her late teens – suddenly grabs Enjolras by the arm and starts wailing at him in Polish.

“My friend, he fell in, can you help? Can you get the police, can you get someone?” she's saying, but Enjolras doesn't speak a word of Polish and, as far as Enjolras is aware, neither does Grantaire, and they can only stare helplessly at her. Grantaire realises that none of the group can be older than eighteen, and they all look very drunk despite the fact that it's barely ten. Their first holiday without parental supervision, he supposes. It looks like it's going great.

“Someone's in the canal,” Jehan says, his eyes scanning the water's surface. “Someone's down there, and there's something...I don't know, something's _weird...”_

“Weirdness can wait. There's a person in there?” Enjolras demands, and Grantaire thinks, _great,_ because Enjolras is going to want to go in there after them. He wouldn't be happy about that any day, but he's getting a series of psychic warning bells from Jehan – a rapid fire of signals that just scream that something is _wrong_ here – and he knows that he can't let either of them near the water.

“Hold this,” he grunts as he shrugs out of his jacket and dumps it in Enjolras's arms.

“Why, what are you- _Grantaire!_ ” He barely hears Enjolras's yell as he steps over the low barrier and jumps into the canal.

The water is cold and suspiciously murky, and he's very grateful that he's not susceptible to any water-borne diseases. Their spirit is suddenly down here with him, and she's looking at him curiously. He wonders if she can tell he isn't human. Whatever the case, she seems to decide they have other priorities right now; she points downwards. Grantaire swims down, following the weak flicker of a human soul somewhere near the canal bed.

When he finds the kid, it suddenly becomes clear why Jehan was getting such strange and sinister psychic signals.

The boy didn't _fall_ into the canal – not without help, anyway. His unmoving body is currently in the grip of a thoroughly ugly creature, with dully glowing red eyes that glare at Grantaire through the murk. Its body is thick and bloated-looking, like a long-drowned corpse, its face is wide and frog-like, and its skin is black and scaly and covered with odd, greenish growths. However, it clearly isn't stupid; judging by the sudden widening of its red eyes, it can definitely see that Grantaire is something more powerful than a human, and it drops its victim and disappears into the gloom.

Grantaire would dearly like to go after it and kill it and have that be the end of it, but given that he's unarmed, that might be a little difficult to explain. And anyway, he doesn't think the boy the thing dragged down here would last that long – his soul is already diminishing like the dying embers of a fire. Grantaire grabs him and heads for the surface.

When he breaks the surface of the water, he is met by a cacophony of screams. He blinks, thinking that something else horrific must have happened while he was underwater, but then he realises that it's just the group of drunk teenagers screaming and crying in relief.

Enjolras isn't screaming – Enjolras isn't saying anything. He's staring down at Grantaire with a wide-eyed, stricken look on his face and, Grantaire notices, Jehan has one arm wrapped tightly around his torso, as if he's been holding him back.

He swims for the bank and Enjolras and Jehan snap into action, reaching down to help him and his cargo back onto dry ground. Grantaire is sure to make a show of gasping for air, because humans need to breathe.

“What were you _thinking?_ ” Enjolras is saying. The group of kids are crowding round them and making a lot of noise, but he only really hears Enjolras. He sounds somewhat fraught. “I mean, you could've...what if...”

“Someone had to, right?” Grantaire says, pushing his dripping hair back out of his eyes.

“Are you alright?” Enjolras asks, and it's that same tentative, uncertain voice that Grantaire remembers from his unexpected apology that morning, that voice that makes him sound like he's on thin ice and is unsure how to proceed.

“Is _he_ alright?” Jehan interrupts, indicating to the unconscious form of the boy Grantaire dragged from the canal.

“He'll be fine,” Grantaire says, laying the boy down flat on his back and deals him a solid (and possibly Grace-imbued) thump to the chest with his fist. The boy jerks awake immediately and starts coughing up water. “See, he's good.”

“We called the emergency services while you were under,” Jehan says. “Which was fun since you're the only one who speaks any Dutch. But we should probably clear out before they get here.”

“Right, yeah.” Grantaire gets to his feet, and they leave the crowd of teenagers to fuss over their friend.

“Do you want this?” Enjolras asks him, holding out his jacket.

“Keep it dry for me, will you?” Grantaire says with a short laugh. Enjolras nods mutely and tucks it under his arm.

They're only a few streets away when they hear the sirens approaching. Grantaire can feel Jehan poking curiously at his mind.

“You saw something down there,” he says suddenly.

“Nothing good,” Grantaire confirms.

They both look at him questioningly. He shrugs.

“The good news is, you get to kill something after all,” he says, nodding in Enjolras's direction. “The bad news is there's a monster in the canal.”

They get back to the hotel, and the two of them set about questioning him while he just stands and drips all over the carpet. He tells them everything about what he saw, and when he's done, Jehan gives a loud groan and throws himself face-down on the nearest bed.

“Jehan?” Enjolras says, perplexed.

“Fire me,” Jehan's muffled voice says. “I'm the worst psychic ever and I deserve to be fired.”

“Um?”

“I should have been able to piece this together before someone else nearly got drowned!” Jehan rolls onto his back and waves his arms and kicks his legs agitatedly. He looks sort of like a flipped tortoise. “Rita, the ghost girl, she's not a rusalka, not exactly, she's....” He makes a frustrated noise. “The thing Grantaire saw, it's a vodyanoy. They're monsters that live in freshwater and...They drown people, they lure them to the water's edge and they drown them. And the people they kill, their spirits are trapped. The vodyanoy _feeds_ off them.”

“So the ghost, she's...?” Enjolras starts.

“She's been trying to protect people this whole time,” Jehan says. “Vodyanoy hunt at night, so she only comes out at night. And she tries to warn people away from the water so that it can't kill anyone else.”

“And tonight she didn't manage.”

“That thing's feeding on her spirit,” Jehan reminds him. “She must be getting weaker. We need to kill it quickly, she's probably the only thing tethering it to that specific area. Once she becomes too weak, it could roam freely around all the canals in the city. We'd never find it.”

“We could go back right now,” Enjolras says.

“The police might be keeping an eye on that area tonight to make sure no other drunk tourists decide to go swimming,” Grantaire says. “Maybe wait until tomorrow.”

Enjolras grimaces – as Grantaire knows only too well, he hates waiting.

“Alright, so how do we kill it?” he asks, folding his arms.

“You have a blade that kills anything,” Grantaire says. “You don't need to ask that question.”

“There's one blade and three of us. If anything goes wrong, I want a plan B,” Enjolras says with a frown.

“I'm pretty sure daylight kills them but dragging it out of the water in the light of day seems like a bad idea,” Jehan says from the bed. “They say that seawater is deadly to them, too, so I guess salt?”

“How do you two know so much about such obscure creatures?” Enjolras asks incredulously.

“Are you kidding? Dark folklore is my lifeblood,” Jehan says with a grin. “Not sure what Grantaire's excuse is.”

“I listen,” Grantaire says. He psychically informs Jehan that he is very touched by the opportunities to come clean that he keeps providing him with, but that he should really stop doing that. “I'm going to go for a shower. That canal water was so not clean.”

Showering is one of a few human things that, while unnecessary for him, he has come to quite enjoy. He stands under the warm spray and listens to Jehan and Enjolras talking through the wall. After a while, Jehan excuses himself to go to bed, and so when he steps out of the bathroom, clean and in dry clothes, Enjolras is alone. He looks up as Grantaire pads into the room, rubbing his hair with a towel. Enjolras looks like he's trying to smile but isn't quite managing it.

“I still can't believe you did that,” he says finally. Grantaire laughs.

“Yeah, it was a bit heroic, wasn't it? Not so much my style,” he says.

“I didn't say that,” Enjolras says with a shrug, looking away. “Just. You didn't even think about it, you just _went_...” He gives a small laugh, and it sounds sort of shaky. “I was...startled.”

“Well.” Grantaire drapes the towel around his neck and lets his wet curls hang around his ears and forehead. “I knew if I didn't, then you would. And I'm much more expendable than you.”

“That's not true,” Enjolras protests with more heat that Grantaire would have expected. He blinks.

“You're the one who's going to save the world, Enjolras,” he says. “I'm just the tag-along.”

“No, that's- You're not any less important.” Enjolras looks frustrated, aghast; he gets to his feet and it brings them very close together, but not touching. He raises a hand, like he wants to grab Grantaire by the collar or shoulder to drive his point home, but in the end he just lets it hover meaninglessly in the air for a few moments before dropping it to his side again. “You're not _expendable._ ”

“Alright,” Grantaire says carefully, gently, the way he always does when he says something without really thinking and Enjolras gets upset. “Alright. Okay.”

Enjolras's eyes are burning into his, his soul indignant and fiery, but then he looks away again, the muscles in the hinge of his jaw tensing.

“That thing could have killed you,” he says. He sounds almost accusing. Grantaire wants to say something like _well, better me than you or Jehan,_ but apparently that kind of talk isn't going down so well today.

“We go up against things that could kill us almost every day,” he says instead. “It's sort of an occupational hazard.”

Enjolras sits down at the table again and puts his head in his hands.

“I'm going to be so glad when this case is over,” he mutters to the tabletop.

~

They spend a lot of the next day arguing over how exactly they're going to kill this thing. Their best strategy seems to be to let the vodyanoy lure one of them towards the water, let it think it has them, and then...well. Stab it in the face, Grantaire supposes. The question is which one of them should do the deed.

To his annoyance, Grantaire has to eliminate himself from the running pretty early in the debate.

“It saw me when I was in the water last night,” he admits. “And it knows I saw it, too. It'd be suspicious if I came back after that.”

More to the point, the thing would never show itself to him – it knows full well that he could vaporise it with a single touch. Luckily, Enjolras accepts the alternate version without question. He looks a little relieved, actually.

“Okay, look, the way these things lure people to them...” Jehan pauses briefly to chew thoughtfully on the end of a pen. “The old folk tales say that they play some kind of enchanting music, but it's more likely that they do something that messes with your mind. Otherwise why would anyone go near it? Grantaire made it sound pretty ugly.”

“Think giant inflatable frog from hell,” Grantaire says from where he's doodling in a corner.

“I might be the best at withstanding its mind-fuckery, that's all I'm saying,” Jehan says.

Enjolras is less than happy with this suggestion. It's written all over his face and in the smoky purple apprehension in his soul.

“If anything went wrong, we'd be kind of screwed, though,” Grantaire puts in. “We might not know until it was too late to help you.”

“Hm?” Jehan narrows his eyes at him, still gnawing on his pen. He's floating around in Grantaire's mind, as usual, and knows exactly what he's playing at.

“If Enjolras went, you could be in his head the whole time,” Grantaire says with a shrug. “You might even be able to help him fight off the thing's luring-whatever. And if it got him under its influence, you'd know straight away and we could jump in.”

“That makes sense,” Enjolras says a little too quickly. Jehan heaves a dramatic sigh.

“You're just eager to be the one in peril, as usual,” he grouches before pointing an accusing finger at Grantaire. “And you're very bad for encouraging him.”

“Maybe I just want to keep you safe, darling,” Grantaire says in amusement.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees something ripple across the surface of Enjolras's soul, too quick for him to discern. When he turns to look properly, it's gone.

“You just don't think I'd be any good at stabbing things,” Jehan retorts, a little too loudly, like he's trying to divert attention away from what Grantaire just said. Which is odd. “I could do it, you know.”

“I know you could,” Enjolras says. “I'd just prefer it if you didn't have to.”

“...Alright,” Jehan says. He only sounds a tiny bit sulky. “I guess I'd prefer if I didn't have to, too.”

And that settles it, apparently. When it gets dark, they head back to the street that they're all getting quite sick of seeing. Enjolras has Grantaire's blade hidden under his red coat, and each of them is armed with a tub of salt just in case things go awry. The plan is for Grantaire and Jehan to hang back – they figure Enjolras will make a more appealing target if he appears to be alone.

“It seems to target drunk people, too,” Grantaire says under his breath as they station themselves in a shadowy nook between buildings. “Maybe you should act drunk.”

Enjolras gives him a _look_ before turning on his heel and heading out onto the street.

“You in his head?” Grantaire asks Jehan.

“Yeah,” he confirms. “He's thinking you're an idiot.”

“Really?” Grantaire says without much surprise.

“No. That's actually what I'm thinking.”

“What?”

“Shh, pay attention.” Jehan gestures towards Enjolras. He slowly walks the full length of the street; when nothing happens, he goes over and perches on one of the barriers near the water's edge, as if waiting for someone. Luckily, the place is deserted. Maybe the rest of Amsterdam is finally catching on.

For a long time, absolutely nothing happens. Grantaire shifts impatiently. Monster stake-outs are definitely the least glamorous part of any hunting job. He thinks Enjolras must be getting very uncomfortable, leaning against the metal pole of the barrier. He's doing an admirable job of pretending to be absorbed with his phone. Grantaire wonders what he's doing. Texting Courfeyrac? Playing Angry Birds?

Something in the atmosphere shifts.

“Wow.” Grantaire feels goosebumps rise on his arms as a chill goes through the air. “I think it's coming.”

“It is,” Jehan says.

“Warn him,” Grantaire says, nodding towards Enjolras.

“I know what I'm doing,” Jehan says, not taking his eyes off Enjolras once. “He knows. It's seeping into his head already.”

“You've got to keep it out,” Grantaire says.

“I'm trying. I need to concentrate.”

Grantaire takes that as his cue to shut up. He watches tensely as Enjolras turns slowly to face the water. Is he mind-whammied or just pretending to be? It's hard to tell. His soul looks clear enough, but his soul hasn't been such a great indicator recently.

The street is almost in complete darkness due to all the broken street-lamps, but there is just enough light for Grantaire to see a black, webbed hand slither out of the water and onto the bank. It's followed by a second hand, and the vodyanoy's bulbous, frog-like head. Its softly glowing eyes watch Enjolras very closely. He takes a step towards it.

“He's okay,” Jehan murmurs. “Don't worry, he's fine, I've got him.”

Enjolras is close enough for the monster to touch him now. And it does, it reaches out with one scaly hand and grips his left wrist, and Grantaire feels sick and furious and he wants to set the thing on fire. But Enjolras's other hand is slowly reaching for the blade, and it'll all be over in a minute-

That's when their ghost appears. Judging by Enjolras's startled jump, she's managed to manifest so that even he can see her this time. She gives an almighty shriek and lunges at the monster, which makes some hideous gurgling noises and releases Enjolras's arm under her onslaught. As soon as it does, she rounds on Enjolras with a glare.

“Get _back!_ ” she screams, raising a hand and sending him flying. The angle is unfortunate; rather than pushing him further away from the water, she succeeds in only pushing him further along the bank. He hits the ground with a pained sound, and the blade flies from his hand.

“You didn't tell the ghost this was the plan?” Grantaire demands. Jehan fixes him with a _look_ to rival Enjolras's own.

“When did I have time to tell her this was the plan? Did you see me tell her? When was I meant to tell her?” he says, throwing his hands up as they both hurry out of hiding and onto the street. “And telling her might have warned the- you know what, never mind. Go help Enjolras.”

Enjolras has, by this time, managed to push himself up onto his elbows and is scrambling towards where the blade fell. Grantaire gets to him just as the vodyanoy's hand shoots out of the water and seizes him by the ankle. He lets out a small gasp as his feet hit the cold water, but Grantaire catches him by the hand before the monster can drag him any deeper. A strange game of tug-of-war ensues.

“Get the sword,” Enjolras grinds out between gritted teeth.

“Forget the sword,” Grantaire says, using his other hand to grab further up Enjolras's arm and pulling almost hard enough to raise suspicion about just how strong he really is. He thinks Enjolras might be too glad to be out of the monster's grasp to notice, though, and he's right.

“I've got you,” he says as he hauls Enjolras back onto dry land. Letting him go when that thing is still alive is an _effort,_ but he manages.

The vodyanoy looks at him, lets out a screech and goes to make a hasty retreat, as he'd expected it would. But then, suddenly, it freezes. Its face takes on a stunned, dazed expression, and it floats near the water's edge, perfectly still.

“Kill it.”

Grantaire and Enjolras both jump at Jehan's voice; they both turn to see him staring very intently at the creature. They both understand at the same moment.

“You're in its head?” Enjolras says, sounding horrified.

“And working the controls,” Jehan says, sounding a little far-off and dreamy. “You need to kill it. Quickly.”

“Not while you're in there,” Enjolras protests. He snatches up the blade and advances towards the monster again. “Let it go first.”

“It might get away,” Jehan says. “Just do it.”

“No, you'll feel it!” Enjolras shakes his head furiously. “I'm not killing it while you're in there.”

“Enjolras, I can't hold it, you need to do it _now_ ,” Jehan says, and his expression is calm but there are tears running down his cheeks from the sheer _effort_ of it.

“No,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire knows he won't do it, and he thinks that he never loves him more than when he shows that there are some things he puts before the job.

Ignoring his revulsion, he reaches out and grabs the creature at the fleshy juncture of its neck and shoulder and holds on tight.

“Jehan, I've got it, okay?” he calls. “It's not going to get away. We'll kill it. You can let it go now.”

He glances up at Enjolras.

“Please be quick,” he mutters. Enjolras nods.

Jehan makes a small noise like a sob, and in an instant the monster is struggling and thrashing against Grantaire's hold.

“Enjolras,” he says, trying to pull it in even closer to the bank to give him a better shot.

Quick and clean as ever, Enjolras raises the blade and brings it down right between the thing's eyes.

It doesn't even have time to scream. It goes limp and still.

Enjolras extracts the blade again, pulling a face when he sees that it's covered in viscous black _something._ Grantaire releases his grip on the creature's shoulder, and its body sinks like a stone. His hand feels slimy but he doesn't really feel like cleaning it off in the water. Enjolras appears to have no such qualms, swirling the blade in the canal a few times before stowing it back in his coat.

Jehan is on his knees, using the metal barrier to hold himself up. They both hurry to his side.

“Are you alright?” Enjolras asks him anxiously. Jehan blinks sleepily at him.

“M'tired,” he murmurs. “Did you get it?”

“Yeah, we got it, it's dead,” Enjolras tells him.

“Mmm.” Jehan manages a smile. “She can go now, then.”

“She?”

They look back at the water to see the ghost watching them. She smiles, and then in a burst of white light, she's gone.

“...Do you think anyone saw that?” Grantaire says after a moment.

“Probably.” Enjolras helps Jehan to his feet. “We should get back. Can you walk?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jehan says, waving him off. “I'm going straight to bed when we get there, though.” He gives a small shudder. “Being in a monster's head is not fun.”

 _But you have so much practice at it,_ Grantaire says silently to him, edging the thoughts with humour. The inside of Jehan's mind _hurts_ and he tries his best to soothe it – he catches his hand as they walk along and sends another tiny pulse of Grace through to him.

 _You're not a monster,_ Jehan replies as his mind sings gratefully. _You're an angel._

_Angels are-_

_Fine, whatever, I don't mean the species. You're a human's idea of an angel. Deal with it._

Grantaire doesn't argue any further. He thinks Jehan is due a break.

Enjolras walks a little way ahead of them the whole way back to the hotel.

~

“How're the battle wounds?” Grantaire asks when Enjolras emerges from the bathroom the next morning. His hands had got pretty scraped up when the ghost threw him, and he's bruised all down one side.

“I'm fine,” Enjolras says with a shrug. He's in a t-shirt, and Grantaire frowns when he sees a ring of finger-shaped bruises around his upper arm. His heart sinks.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks tentatively, pointing to them and feeling guilt burn at his insides. Enjolras glances down at his arm and snorts.

“You probably saved my life, getting me away from that thing,” he says. “I think I can forgive you a few bruises.”

“Still,” Grantaire says, rolling across his bed to get a closer look. He hadn't meant to grip tight enough to bruise. If he hadn't been completely in control, then it's lucky that he didn't break Enjolras's arm.

“...Thanks, by the way,” Enjolras says quietly. “For getting me out of there.”

"You say that as if not saving you was an option," Grantaire laughs. He reaches out, wanting to brush his fingertips across the bruises, maybe with a futile desire to heal them without Enjolras noticing, maybe because he just wants to touch him. He remembers at the last moment that that probably isn't allowed and draws his hand back. He remembers gripping Enjolras's hand last night and wishes that the situation hadn't been too stressful for him to enjoy the moment.

“Do we have new orders from Combeferre yet?” he asks.

“Oh. Uh.” Enjolras looks away. “I actually haven't called him yet.”

Grantaire tries to catch his eye and settles for making a questioning noise when that fails.

“Well. You talked a lot about about wanting to see Amsterdam, right? Jehan, too,” Enjolras says, busying himself with making his bed as he talks. “So. I guess hanging around for an extra day won't hurt. I'll call Combeferre later.”

“You're serious?” Grantaire says, a slow smile spreading across his face.

“Yeah,” Enjolras says, and it sounds like a sigh.

“Jehan is a good influence on you,” Grantaire remarks, though he can't understand why Enjolras sounds so dejected about it, if it was his decision. “Is there anywhere you- ow.”

He cuts himself off and raises a hand to his temple as, out of nowhere, a brightly-coloured banner unfurls behind his eyes, with the word BREAKFAST! written on it in large letters. He blinks, bewildered.

“Did you just get psychic-summoned?” Enjolras asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I assume so.” Grantaire stands up, shaking his head to clear it. “I did not know he could do that. I think he wants to go get breakfast food. Any requests?”

“I'm not really hungry,” Enjolras says with another shrug.

“Strawberries?” Grantaire suggests with a grin.

“Not hungry,” Enjolras repeats shortly.

“You're getting strawberries,” Grantaire says, hurrying out the door before Enjolras can argue.

He meets Jehan outside the hotel's main door.

“Good morning,” Jehan says brightly, linking arms with him as they start down the street.

“You're perky,” Grantaire says, amused. “Feeling better?”

“Much!” Jehan steers them towards the nearest supermarket. “What are we getting to eat?”

“I promised Enjolras strawberries,” Grantaire says.

“I bet you did,” Jehan says, rolling his eyes. Once they're inside, he grabs a basket but keeps his arm linked firmly with Grantaire's. Grantaire gets the strangest suspicion that it's to keep him from escaping, though he can't imagine why.

“Okay,” Jehan says as he starts to drag him around the aisles. “Listen up. On this, our last day in Amsterdam, with our work all done, I am going to tell you a few things.”

“A few things?” Grantaire repeats, bemused.

“Yes.” Jehan nods decisively. “I thought maybe I shouldn’t, because I hate to meddle. Really, I do. But I’m not going to tell you whatto do or what I think you should do or anything, so maybe it’s not _really_ meddling. Just, there are some things that you don’t know that I think you should know. So I will tell you. And they will inform your future decisions.”

“This all sounds very serious.”

“Thing number one,” Jehan starts without further ado: “From what I can gather, Enjolras specifically asked for the case here.”

Grantaire blinks. He isn’t sure exactly what he was expecting Jehan to tell him, but it certainly wasn’t that.

“He did what?” he asks, because that doesn’t make sense. This entire time, he’d been under the impression that Combeferre had foisted this job on them just to get them out of Paris and out from under his feet, and much to Enjolras’s annoyance, at that. The case here didn’t _suit_ Enjolras.

“Yes, Combeferre was surprised, too,” Jehan goes on. “We pondered it quite a long while when he called me. Ah, and that’s thing number two. Enjolras also asked Combeferre to bring me in.”

“You’re his friend, of course he’d ask for you.”

“No, listen. He asked for a psychic. That was his idea. You know what that means, right?”

“I don’t think I do,” Grantaire says, but he does and Jehan can see as much so he doesn’t push the matter and instead gives him a few moments to think it through, releasing his arm just long enough to throw a few things into the basket.

It means that Enjolras came here to help a ghost instead of to destroy it. He wasn’t forced into it, Combeferre wasn’t gently coercing him by making him take the only psychic who is also his friend along for the ride – it had been Enjolras’s intention from the very start.

Jehan, of course, knows when he’s reached the correct conclusion.

“Now why would Enjolras do a thing like that, I wonder?” he says, an amused smile playing on his lips, small sunbeams dancing in his soul.

“He wouldn’t,” Grantaire says. The revelation disturbs him, because that’s not Enjolras, he _knows_ Enjolras; he-of-the-blazing-soul, the indefatigable boy-soldier, the man who is going to rid the world of the supernatural with bullets and knives and his own sweat and blood. Not with diplomacy and certainly not with kindness.

“You don’t really think so harshly of him, in your heart,” Jehan, who has apparently been peeking, says. “You know there’s more to him than that.”

“Not when it comes to hunting.”

“Seems that’s not true.” Jehan sounds rather smug. “But if you _really_ can’t figure out what’s changed, maybe you should ask him.”

Grantaire snorts.

“Right, yeah,” he says. “I can imagine how well that would go.”

“See, that’s thing number three,” Jehan says. He turns to look him dead in the eyes, which Grantaire takes to mean that thing number three is important. “You have this idea that he wants to be left alone, or that he’d do anything to keep you out. But he will talk to you, if you approach him right. He _wants_ to talk to you.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Grantaire says immediately, almost laughing.

“Grantaire, I’m a psychic, trust me on this one,” Jehan says, deadpan.

“I’m not his idea of good company,” Grantaire says, starting to feel slightly hysterical because this conversation is going down such a surreal route. “I drive him _crazy,_ he can hardly bear-”

“Thing number four,” Jehan interrupts: “After Feuilly died, Enjolras said he’d never travel with anyone again. He said it required a level of trust that almost automatically results in a closer bond than just one between colleagues. He said he’d never travel with anyone again because the person you travel with becomes the person closest to you, and he was not prepared to go through losing that person again.”

Grantaire closes his hands into fists, shakes his head.

“No, I...he didn’t think he had a choice. He didn’t _want_ this, I forced him, I knew he’d do anything to keep my sword.”

“Ten months,” Jehan says, laying a hand gently on his cheek, as if to ground him here. “Almost a year. I’ve been in your head, and in his. I know he never tried to bargain, or convince you to leave. Didn’t you think that was strange, if you’re so sure he dislikes you? I know him. If things weren’t exactly as he wants them to be, he’d have found a way to change them.”

Grantaire just stares. Part of him is oddly angry. He feels it is somewhat cruel of Jehan to offer him hope where his heart tells him there is none. But Jehan wouldn’t lie to him, he knows that, and although Jehan isn’t with Enjolras every day, he most certainly has a much better _understanding_ of Enjolras’s mysterious inner workings.

Grantaire is sort of terrified, and all because a human may or may not despise him quite as much as he’d thought.

“He’ll talk to you,” Jehan reiterates.

“He doesn’t normally.”

“That’s because you’re always making fun of him,” Jehan says chidingly. For the first time, with the help of a slight psychic nudge, Grantaire sees how his playful jibes might not seem so different from the harsh mocking of the Musain hunters, and he feels a stab of guilt. “He’s as nervous of you as you are of him, you know.”

“Enjolras, nervous?” Grantaire really does laugh this time.

“Yes,” Jehan says with a warning frown. Grantaire realises dimly that they're at the check-out already. Jehan is an efficient shopper. “He's only human, you know.”

“Why are you telling me all this?” Grantaire asks uneasily once they've got all their purchases into bags and are heading for the exit.

“Because you love him, and knowing a bit more about him might help that run somewhat more smoothly,” Jehan replies without missing a beat. Grantaire jumps like an electric shock went through him; Jehan looks at him incredulously. “Did you think I didn't know that? I'm a psychic that's been living in your head for the past few days, and any stranger who happened to pass you two on the street could probably tell-”

“Alright, alright,” Grantaire mutters as they step out into the morning sunshine.

“What? Do you think it's a bad thing?” Jehan asks with a curious blink. “You being in love with him?”

“Stop _saying_ that,” Grantaire groans. “Of course it's a bad thing, it's a _disastrous_ thing-”

“Shut up.” Jehan stops him and presses a kiss to his cheek. “It's a wonderful thing. Now, you take these.”

Grantaire blinks as Jehan hands him the bags, and-

“Wait, where did the tulips come from?” he asks, frowning as Jehan stuffs the bouquet into the crook of his arm.

“I just bought them, weren't you paying attention?” Jehan is digging through one of the shopping bags.

“Why?”

“Why not? Flowers are lovely.” There's something distinctly mischievous in Jehan's smile as he straightens up, a croissant and a bottle of orange juice in his hands. “Well, this is my breakfast. I'm going to see the sights.”

“You're going alone?” Grantaire asks, perplexed.

“Yup. How else would I ever get you two to spend time together?” Jehan says, already walking away.

“You don't like meddling, huh?” Grantaire calls after him dryly.

Jehan shoots him a grin over his shoulder, suggesting that he is completely unashamed.

Grantaire sighs and trudges back to the hotel.

“...Why do you have tulips?” is the first thing Enjolras asks when he sees him. Understandably.

“Because flowers are lovely, apparently?” Grantaire replies. When Enjolras just arches an eyebrow at him, he shrugs helplessly. “Yeah, I don't know.”

There's an ancient-looking, foggy plastic jug with artificial flowers in it on the windowsill. Grantaire empties it out, fills it with water and puts Jehan's inexplicable tulips in it. He sets it on the table along with the breakfast food.

“Where's Jehan?” Enjolras asks.

“He took off. I guess he was in a hurry to start sight-seeing.”

“Oh.” Enjolras has his nose buried in a book of Nordic runes, and he doesn't look up from it. “Are you going to catch up to him later?”

“Dunno.” Grantaire starts unpacking the food Jehan bought while he wasn't paying attention. He remembered the strawberries. “What're you planning to do with your extremely rare day off?”

“Thought I'd catch up with some reading,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire supposes he really shouldn't be surprised. He must have pulled a disapproving face, though, because Enjolras glances up and frowns.

“What?” he demands.

“Nothing,” Grantaire mutters, slumping into a chair. “Reading. Yeah. Great.”

Enjolras shoots him a baleful look and goes back to his book in moody silence. Grantaire really doesn't know what he did to earn the cold shoulder today, but then, he rarely does. He tends to just assume that Enjolras wants nothing to do with him. And he's so sure that Jehan's alternative theory is wrong but he can't help but think about it, because wouldn't it be _nice?_ If it really was all just a misunderstanding – a matter of not approaching Enjolras the right way?

He tries not to snort out loud. He's painfully aware that he has absolutely no idea what the correct way to approach Enjolras is.

He decides to take a stab at it. In Jehan's honour, or something.

“Why don't you come out?” he asks conversationally.

“Because I don't want to,” Enjolras says from behind his book.

“I don't get it.” Grantaire sighs. He feels like he's doing badly already. “You don't wantto enjoy yourself? Just for a day?”

“I wouldn't enjoy myself,” Enjolras says.

“Ah.” Grantaire makes a mental note to tell Jehan that he was so, so _wrong._

“Ah?” Enjolras repeats.

“Nothing, just...” Grantaire waves a hand in the air and gives a short laugh. “I'm really that bad to be around, huh?”

To his surprise, Enjolras lowers the book pretty quickly at that. There's suddenly something anxious about him – on his face and in his soul.

“I didn't mean _that_ ,” he says. “You're not...you're fine. That's not what I meant.”

“Then what's the problem, if it's not me?” Grantaire asks. “You care way too much about this world to not be interested in it. Sitting in here reading up on runes cannot be your first choice of things to do today.”

Enjolras frowns and doesn't meet his eyes. His mouth twists from side to side.

“It's just,” he starts. “Well. I'd spoil it.”

Grantaire blinks once, twice. And again.

“What?” he manages finally.

“I'm just not a very fun person,” Enjolras says with a helpless shrug. “I'm not like Jehan. I just thought you and he would have a better time if I-”

“Wait.” Grantaire holds up a hand. “Do you actually think I wouldn't want to spend the day with you?”

Enjolras's face floods faintly pink. He opens his mouth, shuts it again, and settles for shrugging again.

Grantaire is suddenly glad that Jehan isn't here. He'd probably be gloating.

He has no idea what to say, he realises. How can Enjolras possibly not know that he wants to be with him _always-?_

 _Probably because you never told him so,_ says a voice in his head that sounds sort of like an exasperated Jehan.

“Huh,” he manages finally.

“It's fine,” Enjolras says, ducking down behind his book again.

Grantaire takes a deep breath. He's floundering somewhat with the realisation that there is, in fact, some stupid, bizarre and completely avoidable _gulf_ between the two of them, because apparently they've both been blundering along with the idea that they each can't stand being around the other.

He thinks that maybe has to change. And, since he seems to be the only one who's been struck with this epiphany, it appears to be up to him to change it.

He gets to his feet. Enjolras glances up at the noise; Grantaire comes around to his side of the table and plucks the book from his hands.

“Want to go be tourists for the day?” he asks. He smiles and hopes it doesn't look teasing – hopes Enjolras will understand.

“Look, you don't have to-” Enjolras starts uncomfortably.

“Because I'd really like that,” Grantaire says. “I would.”

Enjolras blinks up at him. Grantaire thinks this might be the first time he's left him at a loss for words.

“Come on, get up,” he says. Maintaining distance between them seems to have been half the problem, so without letting himself think about it first, he takes Enjolras's hands and pulls him to his feet. Enjolras looks faintly astonished – but he doesn't pull back or shove Grantaire away, and Grantaire knows he should really let go of his hands now that he's standing but he can't quite bring himself to.

“And anyway,” he goes on. “If you don't go out and enjoy the world once in a while, you're going to forget what you're fighting for.”

Making it about the job seems to take some of the pressure off, and Enjolras seems to relax slightly. He even manages a wry smile.

“...I suppose,” he says. “I mean, if you really think it's so important.”

Grantaire can feel himself grinning like a fucking idiot and he is totally unable to do anything about it. He reminds himself that he is an angel. He is an ageless celestial being of incredible power. And he can't stop smiling.

“Come on, then,” he says, grabbing his bag and hooking it over his shoulder.

“What about breakfast?” Enjolras asks, looking amused.

“You said you weren't hungry,” Grantaire reminds him, starting to shove all the food back into the plastic bag. “We'll eat later. We have to leave right now or I'm scared you'll change your mind.”

“I won't-” Enjolras starts to protest, but Grantaire is already pushing him out the door.

~

They have no plan in mind, and neither of them seems to want to take charge and suggest a destination, so they just wander for a while. Grantaire chatters about everything and anything the whole time for fear of things descending into awkward silence if he stops, because spending time together for reasons unrelated to a case is _new_ for them and it's abundantly clear that they don't really know what to do with it. He feels a bit stupid, but after some time he realises that Enjolras is doing the exact same thing. He glances at his soul and sees it flickering at the edges in a myriad of confused colours; he's nervous.

Grantaire wonders if he should make a solemn pledge right now to never doubt Jehan ever again.

“Hey,” Enjolras says suddenly, stopping in his tracks. “You wanted to go here, right?”

Grantaire looks up and sees they are approaching the Rijksmuseum. Did he mention wanting to visit it? If he did, he doesn't remember. But Enjolras does.

“You don't like art,” he points out.

“I like _some_ art,” Enjolras protests.

They debate it back and forth for a few minutes, but it turns out to be a moot point, as the museum turns out to be closed for renovations. They end up at the Van Gogh Museum instead, which Grantaire thinks is almost as good. He can't help but flit about with barely-contained enthusiasm, pointing out his favourites and talking far too much about the _colours_ and the _light_ and _isn't it all amazing?_ Enjolras looks more confused than anything else. He doesn't look bored, though, so Grantaire decides to count that as a plus.

“You've been here before,” Enjolras says as Grantaire leads him around with practiced ease.

 _I was here when this place was built,_ Grantaire does not say. _Hell, I've been following some of these paintings around practically since they were created._

“I love all of this,” he says instead. “I hope you're suitably impressed.”

“You know I don't understand it the way you do.”

“You don't have to understand it, you just have to look at it.”

“I'm looking,” Enjolras says, stopping in front of a landscape painting and frowning at it. “I guess I'm just confused by anything that...doesn't look like what it's meant to be.”

“You're a fan of realism, huh?” Grantaire says, amused. “If everyone drew and painted that way, art would be pretty boring.”

“You draw like that. Your drawings look exactly like what they're meant to be.”

“Well, I'm not a great artist,” Grantaire laughs. Enjolras hums thoughtfully.

“I like your drawings,” he says.

“Better than Van Gogh's paintings?” Grantaire says, trying not to sound too scandalised.

“Those are okay too, I guess,” Enjolras says, with a tilt to his mouth that suggests he might be teasing. Enjolras. Teasing. If Grantaire was capable of sleep, he'd think he was dreaming.

By the time they leave the museum, it's early afternoon, and Grantaire knows Enjolras must be hungry by now. He brought their food with him in its carrier bag, and they find a bench to sit down and eat it. Grantaire eats a few token pieces of bread and cheese before fishing his sketchbook out of his bag.

“Feeling inspired after that?” Enjolras asks him.

“Yeah,” Grantaire says, flipping to a clean page. “I want to draw you.”

“What?” Enjolras looks startled.

“I want to draw you,” Grantaire repeats with a grin. “If that's okay.”

“I...don't mind?” Enjolras says slowly. “But. Why?”

“I don't have any drawings of you. If my sketchbooks are my documentation of our travels, they're pretty incomplete if there are no drawings of you, right?” Grantaire says as he sharpens a pencil. “And anyway, this is nice and you look happy. I want to keep it.”

Enjolras snorts quietly and looks away. He doesn't say _I am happy,_ but Grantaire can see the calmly swirling yellow-gold-green contentment in his soul. And, more to the point, the small smile on his face, softening his sometimes severe expression. He's never really wanted to draw Enjolras before, because his soul was always the most important thing to him, and there's no way to capture that with pencil. But today Enjolras is sitting relaxed in the afternoon sunshine, with a smile on his face and his fingers stained faintly red from eating strawberries, and this moment seems so _important_ and perfect and Grantaire wants to hold onto it forever.

“I'm not the best at holding still,” Enjolras warns him.

“Trust me, I know,” Grantaire says. “You can move a little. And keep eating. Feel free to pose, though it's really not necessary.”

“I'm not _posing_ ,” Enjolras says, and he laughs quietly and a breeze stirs up his hair and sends his curls fluttering around his face, and something about it makes Grantaire ache with longing. He starts drawing.

They're quiet for a while, but strangely, it's comfortable. Grantaire is just wondering how long he can go without saying something stupid to disrupt the peace when it is, in fact, Enjolras who speaks up.

“Listen,” he starts. “About Jehan...”

“Yeah?” Grantaire says, still sketching. Enjolras hesitates.

“Just. If, when we're leaving here, if you wanted to go with him instead of, y'know, travelling on...” He trails off and shrugs. And turns his head away just as Grantaire is trying to draw his profile. “That'd be fine. I mean, I'd understand.”

Grantaire blinks at him over the top of his sketchbook.

“Why would I do that?” he asks. Enjolras shrugs again.

“You've seemed happier since he's been here,” he says. “You two really seemed to hit it off, so I just thought...”

“That I'd want to ditch you?” Grantaire can feel his face doing some strange thing that involves both frowning and smiling, because he's not sure which is the most appropriate response. “That's...no. I mean, yeah, Jehan's great, but. No. You're not getting rid of me that easily.”

“I don't want to get rid of you,” Enjolras says quickly, and then immediately goes bright red and turns away again. His soul is practically boiling over with embarrassment, and Grantaire tries not to laugh out loud because he knows that'll only make it worse.

“Hey,” he says, leaning over and brushing Enjolras's shoulder lightly, because today he is being brave and breaking down these stupid boundaries between them. “I'm not going anywhere, okay? You're officially stuck with me.”

“You're sure?” Enjolras asks quietly.

“ _Yes_ ,” Grantaire says with some exasperation. The idea that his devotion is being questioned seems absurd to him. “You're my favourite and you just have to live with that.”

Enjolras snorts and says something that might have been “okay” but Grantaire hardly notices – he's distracted by the way that Enjolras's soul is suddenly shedding that strange, filmy golden skin that it's been wrapped up in for the last few days. It just up and dissipates – but not before Grantaire gets a glimpse of the lurid emerald green that had been lurking underneath. It vanishes too, but Grantaire saw it and he knows what it means.

“You were _jealous_?” he wants to shriek. “You? _You?”_

He manages to refrain.

“There's something I want to ask, though,” he says instead.

“Hm?”

“You asked for the case here.” Grantaire watches Enjolras carefully to gauge his reaction. “Even though you knew it wasn't a straightforward hunt. Why?”

Enjolras's only outward response to the question is a slight raising of his eyebrows. His soul, however, erupts in a strange sort of panic.

“I, uh, assume I wasn't meant to know that,” Grantaire says with a nervous laugh. “Jehan might have mentioned it. Don't kill him.”

“I'm not going to kill him,” Enjolras says. “It's just kind of complicated. And stupid, maybe.”

Grantaire looks at him expectantly until he sighs.

“All the time I've been hunting, I've been working on the basis that there's no grey area in this job. That anything that's not human should just be taken out.” He shifts uncomfortably. “No one ever told me any different, not until...”

“Until?” Grantaire prompts. Enjolras shoots him a wry smile.

“You don't even remember, do you?” he says.

“Remember what?”

“Telling me different.” Enjolras rolls his eyes and doesn't elaborate further. “I just wanted to see, that's all. If maybe there are some monsters that deserve better than just being killed.”

“And what do you think, after...here?” Grantaire asks. He feels distantly awed that this had something to do with _him,_ that he said something and it made Enjolras think differently, but he banishes the thought to the edge of his mind to be dealt with later. It's a bit too much for right now.

“...That girl, the ghost, she tried to save me when she thought that thing had me,” Enjolras says. “And it really does seem like she was trying to protect people all along. I'm pretty glad we didn't just salt and burn her. I suppose there are...exceptions.”

“Oh, wow,” Grantaire says, wiping away an imaginary tear. He wants to yell about how proud he is but figures that would probably go down badly. “Look how you've grown.”

“Shut up,” Enjolras says. “Are you done drawing?”

“I don't know. Does it look like what it's supposed to look like?” Grantaire asks, turning the sketchbook towards him.

“Close enough, I guess,” Enjolras says, smiling again. “Better than that guy in the museum, anyway.”

“That's Van Gogh and you are going to make me cry,” Grantaire informs him as he packs his things away. “Where do you want to go now?”

“I don't know.”

“You have to pick somewhere or we're going to the sex museum.”

“What? That's not a thing.”

“I'll prove it to you if you don't pick somewhere,” Grantaire says with a grin.

By the time they get back to the hotel, it's dark. Grantaire is amazed. They actually managed to spend an entire day together, as people rather than hunters, without killing each other.

Jehan beat them back – he pokes his head out of his room as they pass and smiles sleepily at them.

“Did you guys have fun?” he asks. He is, of course, already siphoning select scenes from the day directly from Grantaire's mind and doing the psychic equivalent of giggling in smug delight.

“Yeah,” Enjolras replies without even hesitating, and Grantaire feels the dumbest swell of warmth, and Jehan feels it too and smiles wider.

They say their goodbyes at the train station the next morning; Jehan is going back to France, whilst Enjolras and Grantaire have already been given a new case and are heading on to the Czech Republic. Jehan is wearing a luminous orange souvenir t-shirt but it is nonetheless a sad farewell.

“Keep in touch,” he says as he hugs Enjolras. “You're so terrible at keeping in touch.”

“I'll do better,” Enjolras promises, which earns him an approving noise.

“And you take care of him,” Jehan says to Grantaire as he wraps him in a tight hug too.

“We'll look after each other,” Grantaire says, patting him on the back.

“In the field of battle, yeah. I mean make sure he eats.”

“Pizza and strawberries every day,” Grantaire assures him.

Jehan holds onto him a moment longer, clearly savouring the last few seconds of close psychic contact, which they won't be able to maintain across long distances. He projects a very clear image into Grantaire's mind; an image of a house with a sprawling but beautiful garden, and its exact location burned into his brain.

 _I'm always there,_ Jehan tells him. _If you need me._

Then he releases him and steps back. He gathers up his bags and shoots them a bright smile.

“Good luck, you two,” he says, and then they go their separate ways.

“I'll miss him,” Grantaire remarks.

“Yeah,” Enjolras agrees.

“So, Czech Republic next, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Prague is a beautiful city,” Grantaire says innocently. “Just saying.”

“Work first,” Enjolras says. Which, Grantaire is pleased to note, is not a 'no'.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to clarify, it is currently 2012 (or, season 7 of Supernatural) in-fic. In case anyone was wondering how Enjolras met Jehan in late 2008 if he's only been hunting for about four years.
> 
> (That's also why the Rijksmuseum was closed. SMALL PIECES OF ACCURACY!)


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I need you back in Paris,” Combeferre tells them. “As soon as you can get here.”
> 
> “Why?” Enjolras asks, clearly perturbed by Combeferre’s clipped tone. “What’s wrong?”
> 
> “Just get here,” Combeferre says. “It’s important.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow this was a long time coming, I'm sorry, I suck, I know.
> 
> LOVELY THINGS THAT HAVE HAPPENED SINCE I LAST UPDATED:
> 
> Arts by [unhooking-the-stars](http://www.unhooking-the-stars.tumblr.com)! [Enjolras](http://unhooking-the-stars.tumblr.com/post/87079663892/rs-sketch-of-enjolras-in-the-latest-chapter-of) and [Bahorel + Feuilly](http://unhooking-the-stars.tumblr.com/post/87077706832/still-sometimes-sad-that-feuillys-dead-in-under-my)
> 
> [Enjolras cosplay](http://furiouscuddles.tumblr.com/post/87406239504) by [furiouscuddles](http://www.furiouscuddles.tumblr.com)!
> 
> [Enjolras](http://iamawildgrantaire.tumblr.com/post/89488543843/some-under-my-wings-enjolras-with-his-shit) by [iamawildgrantaire](http://www.iamawildgrantaire.tumblr.com)!
> 
> Arts by [sassaphrass](http://www.sassaphrass.tumblr.com)! [Enjolras](http://sassaphrass.tumblr.com/post/93259970873/enjolras-is-not-a-man-to-mess-with-water-colour) and [Grantaire](http://sassaphrass.tumblr.com/post/92861552378/i-guess-this-is-now-a-fanart-blog-ooops-pencil)!
> 
> [Under My Wings fanmix](http://sejci.tumblr.com/post/94262738812/a-man-that-is-just-an-invention-a-supernova-of-a) by [sejci](http://www.sejci.tumblr.com), aaaaaaah!
> 
> [Jehan + Grantaire](http://and-they-call-me-prideful.tumblr.com/post/99560696482/because-someone-who-will-not-be-named-referred-me) by [and-they-call-me-prideful](http://www.and-they-call-me-prideful.tumblr.com)!
> 
> And lastly, [UNDER MY WINGS PODFIC](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2535953). It's amazing, I thought I'd cringe in horror hearing my own words read back to me, but it's read so nicely that it actually makes it sound cool! YOU SHOULD LISTEN TO IT!
> 
> Thanks to everyone who makes stuff for this fic, you're all crazy talented and your stuff brightens my day so much!
> 
> Hope you all like this extremely late new chapter! Remember to come say hi on [tumblr](http://www.fivie.tumblr.com) if you feel so inclined!

 

 

~

Things are different after Amsterdam.

Not in a huge way; not overnight. Maybe the average outside observer wouldn’t even have noticed. But Jehan, despite his insistence that he doesn’t like meddling, must have more influence than he knows, because no, things are definitely different. Grantaire has a hard time explaining, even to himself, exactly _how_ they’re different. It’s little things, mostly. Like the way that Enjolras will now unfailingly say ‘thank you’ every morning Grantaire brings coffee, whilst before he often barely seemed to notice where the coffee even came from. It’s not a perfunctory, curt ‘thank you’, either – it usually comes with a small smile, and sometimes it’s a _sleepy_ smile and it sort of makes Grantaire want to tear his own hair out because he’s always known Enjolras is scary and beautiful but he didn’t know he could be _cute._ And while it used to be routine that Grantaire would just set down any and all breakfast supplies a safe distance from Enjolras and wait for him to be quite ready to bow to his human need for sustenance, now Enjolras will always look up from whatever he’s doing and _smile_ and say _thank you_ and take the coffee from Grantaire’s hand and sometimes their fingers will brush and it’s always a strangely intimate moment between just the two of them and it’s _maddening._

Not _bad,_ though. Definitely not bad. Just. Maddening.

When they go to the Czech Republic immediately after Amsterdam, they don’t get to admire Prague – as soon as they’ve dealt with the case there, they are assigned a new job in Slovenia, and as soon as they are off the phone with Combeferre they are packing up their belongings and preparing to leave. This doesn’t surprise Grantaire in the slightest, and nor does it bother him – he knows that hunting comes first, and hunting will always come first, and he’d really be content to write off that one day in Amsterdam as a miraculous, one-off occurrence. But then, weeks later, they find themselves back in Cologne, and after their work there is done, Grantaire catches Enjolras gazing out of their hotel window at the towering spires of the cathedral, squinting slightly against the brightness of the sky.

“It’s big, isn’t it?” Enjolras says suddenly.

“What is?” Grantaire asks innocently. Enjolras looks at him, unimpressed, and he grins back. “Oh, the cathedral. Yes, it’s certainly…big. Are you just noticing?”

“No,” Enjolras huffs, turning back to the window. Grantaire comes over to join him. “People are always talking about this cathedral. I never really understood what the big deal was. I guess I never thought about how people – a _lot_ of people, but still just people – actually had to build it and make it that big. I’m thinking about it now. It’s amazing.” He points up at one of the tallest spires. “I can’t even imagine being up that high.”

Grantaire wants to ask him if he’d like to try it, wants to take his hand and fly him as high as he wants to go, but he manages to just smile.

“I’m very glad you’re acknowledging its existence, at least,” he says. “Last time we were here, I was a little worried that you couldn’t see it at all.”

Enjolras nudges him with his elbow. This, too, is new and different. The invisible barrier that had always existed between them seems to have been lowered – to a certain extent, at least. They aren’t going all-out with physical contact these days, but it’s certainly no longer a taboo. Enjolras has gradually become more free and casual in his touches, and Grantaire is helpless to do anything besides follow his example. He sometimes thinks this might be dangerous – on some level, he _knows_ they’re becoming closer, and he knows that’s _bad,_ that’s not how this was meant to go, but- he likes it. He likes it and he’s weak so he keeps letting it happen, and he knows it can only end badly, but-

“I bet you know all about it,” Enjolras says, dragging him from his thoughts. “How they built it, and such.”

“What makes you think that?” Grantaire asks as casually as possible while having sort of nervous flashbacks to the time he spent perched invisible on the developing stonework, watching the building progress with interest. Enjolras waves a hand.

“It seems like something you’d know about,” he says. He has a certain glint in his eye. “You know, I’m starting to suspect you studied history of art.”

“I don’t study,” Grantaire replies promptly. He won’t lie, he won’t lie. “I’m interested in it. And it’s necessary to maintain my sanity. It’s about balance. Hunting is horror and death, art is beauty and creation. It’s healthy that my two main hobbies are opposites of each other, don’t you think?”

“Hobbies,” Enjolras repeats, rolling his eyes.

“We don’t get paid for hunting,” Grantaire reminds him. “Really, it’s just a hobby we take very, very seriously.”

“You don’t take anything seriously,” Enjolras says.

“Hey, I take Gothic architecture _very_ seriously,” Grantaire says, gesturing back towards the cathedral. “And I take it more seriously the closer I am to it. I should probably go over there and, like, be serious. Hey, you could come too.”

Enjolras is rolling his eyes again, but he says “okay”, and Grantaire’s stupid heart _leaps._ And then they’re tourists again, indistinguishable from the multitude of other tourists gawping up at the cathedral and snapping photos. Enjolras reads the information plaques and asks questions that Grantaire is only too happy to answer – he tells him how long the cathedral took to build, how construction was halted mid-way and only started up again some four hundred years later, and he talks about the significance of its Gothic design and the original reason it was built and endless other things.

(They talk more now, too. They still argue as much as ever – Grantaire would be just plain disturbed if _that_ ever changed – but in between the squabbling and the teasing, there’s actual…talking.)

It’s a relief, really, to be able to tell someone some of the things he knows, instead of just knowing them. He keeps checking to make sure Enjolras isn’t becoming bored, but he never seems to. He just listens attentively and nods and admires the cathedral’s stained glass windows and the elaborate stone carvings above its doors in a manner that looks perfectly genuine. Grantaire realises that this might actually become a _thing._ That every so often, when they’re not rushing off to another country as soon as their work is done, they might have a day or two just like this – where they see the sights, and eat for more than utilitarian purposes, and Enjolras smiles and lets Grantaire prattle on about art or architecture or history or whatever seems most appropriate for the place they’re in. For _fun._ It would’ve been so far out of the question when the two of them first met that Grantaire can’t quite comprehend how they’ve ended up at this point.

A group of French girls hear them speaking French and, looking relieved at being able to speak in their mother tongue, ask them to take a photo for them. Grantaire takes their camera and snaps a few pictures of them posing in front of the cathedral and they thank him and scuttle off, giggling.

“Ever think we should invest in a camera?” Grantaire says. “Think of the possibilities. We could have albums half full of the finest sights of Europe, and half full of quality selfies with severed vampire heads or flaming piles of bones or staked zombies…”

“That would be in very poor taste. And it’d also be incriminating evidence,” Enjolras says. He’s visibly fighting down a smile. “Anyway, we don’t exactly need photographs, what with you drawing everywhere we go.”

“You flatter me.” Grantaire pulls his latest sketchbook from his bag, since they’re on the subject. Enjolras looks at him incredulously.

“You can’t draw _that_ ,” he says, pointing to the cathedral.

“Why not?” Grantaire asks with a blink.

“It’s…” Enjolras waves a hand helplessly. “It’s too complicated.”

“Just watch me,” Grantaire tells him, because he is just awful and can never resist an opportunity to impress Enjolras. He spends much of the afternoon sketching the cathedral, both in its entirety and smaller parts in detail, and Enjolras watches in wonder, and Grantaire knows that he is so, so fucked.

Their next job is in Denmark: a werewolf. Their investigation culminates with them hunting the monster through a dark strip of woodland. They split up, which Grantaire concedes is necessary to cover more ground, but he still doesn’t _like it,_ no matter how well-armed Enjolras is. He makes sure he finds the thing first. His plan is to let it jump him, in the interests of appearing human and vulnerable at all times, _just in case,_ and then stab it in the heart with his silver knife. Unfortunately, this works a little _too_ well; the werewolf leaps upon him and sends him crashing into the undergrowth, and he’s lying there flat on his back with the monster crouched over him, teeth bared, when Enjolras comes running. From beneath the werewolf’s hulking form, Grantaire can just see his soul flood ice-blue-black with terror.

“ _No!”_ Enjolras yells, and the monster’s attention swivels to him, which is the exact opposite of what Grantaire wants. Enjolras raises his gun and shoots the werewolf full of silver bullets, but he’s firing blindly and although he has it shrieking in pain, he hasn’t pierced its heart. Grantaire does that for him with his knife, and the creature slumps over, dead, and he can sit up. Enjolras is at his side, on his knees in the mud, in an instant.

“Hey, check it out, there’s a full moon tonight.” That’s what Grantaire plans to say – he knows Enjolras still doesn’t _relish_ killing and always strives to make him laugh or grumble as soon as possible after a successful hunt – but he doesn’t really get a chance to say anything, because Enjolras is suddenly throwing his arms around his neck and holding on for dear life. Grantaire blinks. He’s _pretty_ sure angels can’t suffer things like concussion, which would suggest that this is really happening, but. _But._

“Enjolras?” he says. He’s too stunned to think to do something logical, like _hug him back,_ which he will regret deeply later. Enjolras lets go and retreats hastily.

“Sorry. Sorry, that was…” He trails off, laughing shakily. His eyes are shining just a little too brightly. “Yeah, sorry.”

“It’s fine?” Grantaire says uncertainly, reaching out and putting a hand on his shoulder. He can feel him trembling minutely beneath his palm.

“I just. I thought you were dead, or bitten, or…” Enjolras’s mouth twists and he drags a hand over his face, shaking his head. “I thought I…”

He trails off again. Grantaire squeezes his shoulder.

“Hey, I’m fine. We’re both fine,” he tells him. “Everything’s okay.”

Enjolras’s bright eyes find the corpse of the werewolf. In death, it has returned to the form of an ordinary man.

“There must have been people who cared about him, before he got turned,” he says. “He must have a family. Friends.”

“Don’t do that to yourself,” Grantaire says warningly.

“But they won’t _understand,_ they’ll just find out he’s _dead_ and they won’t know why,” Enjolras goes on. “He didn’t ask to become this, he didn’t-”

“You don’t know the circumstances. You don’t know what happened,” Grantaire says. “All we knew was that he was killing people and he had to be stopped. You know that’s the job. You know it sucks.”

“I just…” Enjolras takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “I don’t know what I’d do, if someone close to me got turned.”

“You’d do what you had to do,” Grantaire says, trying to ignore the fact that he apparently qualifies as _someone close to Enjolras_ and that means he’s wormed far too deeply into Enjolras’s life, and it wasn’t meant to _be like this-_

“I don’t know if I could,” Enjolras says quietly. He turns his face away, like this is an admission of terrible weakness. Grantaire wishes he’d hugged him earlier. He wants to hug him now.

“Come on,” he says instead, getting to his feet and tugging Enjolras up with him. “Let’s get back to the hotel.”

“But the body…” Enjolras protests weakly, craning his neck to look at it as he’s led away.

“We’ll deal with it later,” Grantaire says. “Not now.”

Enjolras lets himself be steered to the hotel, which is sort of bad sign, given that he normally insists that they don’t rest until a job is completely finished. He’s quiet and subdued when they’re back in their room, looking restless but also incredibly tired. Grantaire knows that offering him sympathy or gentleness would only end in a fight, because Enjolras can’t bear to have his moments of vulnerability acknowledged, and so he settles down with his sketchbook and attempts to be a quiet and comforting presence.

“What are you drawing?” Enjolras asks after some time.

“Bits and pieces of everything,” Grantaire says with a shrug. It’s true – the last few pages are a mish-mash of remembered faces and places and things he might have just made up. “Come and see, if you like.”

Enjolras hesitates, but then slips down off his own bed and onto Grantaire’s, sitting next to him against the headboard. Grantaire realizes that maybe this is what Enjolras needs right now – a certain closeness without it being overtly for his benefit – and shuffles over a little to give him more room. They start off with a small but respectable distance between them, and end with Enjolras a warm weight against Grantaire’s side, watching every stroke of his pencil with heavy-lidded eyes. It’s nice, Grantaire thinks. Nicer than he himself deserves.

When Enjolras falls asleep, Grantaire steals back to that strip of forest and disposes of the body. He doesn’t want Enjolras to have to look at it again, doesn’t want him to be sad anymore. Enjolras admonishes him for it in the morning, but he’s quietly grateful too, and seems a little more like himself when they move on.

They get sent to Belgium next, to hunt a vengeful spirit. It goes much more smoothly. However, they’re still there when they receive the phone-call.

“I need you back in Paris,” Combeferre tells them. “As soon as you can get here.”

“Why?” Enjolras asks, clearly perturbed by Combeferre’s clipped tone. “What’s wrong?”

“Just get here,” Combeferre says. “It’s important.”

“Are you alright?” Enjolras asks.

“ _Enjolras.”_

“Alright, alright, we’ll be on the next train,” Enjolras says hastily, already reaching for his bag. “We’ll keep in touch as we go and let you know when we’ve arrived-”

“Don’t go to the Musain when you get here,” Combeferre interjects. “Come straight to my apartment.”

And with that, he hangs up.

Enjolras is a wreck the whole way back to Paris. Grantaire hardly blames him – Combeferre has never been so cryptic before, and it’s nothing if not concerning. Still, they’re on a crowded train full of ordinary people, and he feels like it’s his duty to at least try and keep Enjolras calm.

“We’ll be there in a few hours,” he says. “Whatever’s wrong, I’m sure Combeferre can keep on top of it until then.”

“We don’t know that,” Enjolras says. His face is pale and his hands are white-knuckled fists in his lap. “He wouldn’t even tell us what was wrong. Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe he’s in trouble, and-”

“Combeferre can look after himself,” Grantaire reminds him. “And I’m sure he’s not alone – Paris is always full of hunters. And we’ll be there soon. We just need to keep it together until we get there.”

Enjolras nods mutely.

When they arrive in Paris, they try to call Combeferre, but receive no answer. They practically sprint to Combeferre’s apartment – luckily it’s late evening, and the streets are quiet, and their flight doesn’t attract much attention. Everything _looks_ normal as they approach the building, but they know that doesn’t necessarily mean that everything is fine.

“This could be some kind of trap, you know,” Grantaire says. He scans the building and sees that Combeferre is inside, but there are several other figures in there with him, too. He manages to ascertain that they all appear to be human, which would suggest hunter allies rather than impending danger, but they can’t be sure of that. Before he can deduce anything further about what they’re going into, Enjolras is dragging him into the building and they’re taking the stairs two at a time. They only stop when they are one landing below Combeferre’s – there, they leave their heavy bags on the stairs and proceed with only their weapons. Enjolras has a handgun with a silencer in his hand and Grantaire’s sword tucked inside his coat; Grantaire has the gun Enjolras gave him on their first case together.

When they reach Combeferre’s apartment, everything is still quiet, but the door is very slightly ajar. They glance at each other and, after a wordless nod from Grantaire, Enjolras pushes the door open. The hallway inside is dark and silent. They both know their way around this apartment, though, and they carefully proceed through the darkness until they reach the living room door. This door, too, is ajar; Enjolras opens it and slips inside. More darkness, more silence.

“Combeferre?” Enjolras dares to call out.

There’s a rustle of movement, and before Enjolras can even try to find its source, someone grabs his arm and gets him pinned against the nearest wall.

“Grantaire-” Enjolras says, panicked, and Grantaire knows he should be helping him but his head is sort of spinning because he’s just got a read on who the other people in the apartment are and that can’t be _right,_ that isn’t possible-

The lights in the living room suddenly snap on, leaving Enjolras and Grantaire wincing and squinting in the sudden glare.

“ _Surpriii-_ ooohholy shit.”

The chorus of voices makes them both freeze. When their eyes adjust, Grantaire sees that, incredibly, his original reading was actually correct. Standing in the middle of Combeferre’s living room, wearing brightly coloured party hats and expressions of utmost alarm, are Courfeyrac, Joly, Bossuet and Marius, as well as a girl he doesn’t recognise. Combeferre is there, too – he’s the one pinning Enjolras to the wall.

“Sorry about that,” he’s saying, plucking the gun from Enjolras’s fingers and releasing him slowly, as if making sure that Enjolras now knows there’s no danger. “I did tell them that jumping out and yelling ‘surprise’ at a hunter was a terrible idea, but they insisted.” He adjusts his glasses, which were knocked askew in the brief scuffle. “Also, if you could stop pointing that at me, Grantaire, I’d really appreciate it.”

Grantaire blinks as he realises that, without any conscious input from himself, his arm had automatically come up to point his weapon at whoever was attacking Enjolras. The barrel of his gun is still trained squarely on Combeferre’s head. He lowers it hastily.

“What’s going on?” Enjolras asks dazedly while absently rubbing life back into his arm. He’s staring between Combeferre and his civilian friends with utter bewilderment.

“…Well.” Courfeyrac shuffles forward, looking sheepish, and gestures towards one of the many banners strung up around the room. “It’s, y’know, your birthday, and we thought…”

“ _What.”_ Enjolras still looks confused as all hell, but his eyes narrow dangerously.

“Yes, I’m afraid I lured you here under false pretences, Enjolras,” Combeferre says. “Again, sorry about that.”

“Are you _serious?_ ” Enjolras explodes. “I thought something was wrong, I was _worried,_ I-” His eyes briefly land upon his gun, still in Combeferre’s grip. “I could’ve killed you, Combeferre!”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Combeferre says with a faint smile.

“I-”

“I knew you wouldn’t fire into a dark room, especially if you didn’t know where I was,” Combeferre says, placating. “And I knew Grantaire would never attack when it might put you in danger. And look, I was right, and we’re all fine.”

“I don’t believe this,” Enjolras says, dragging a hand through his hair and looking somewhat wild-eyed. “I mean, I can believe that you,” he points at Courfeyrac and the others, “would come up with an idea like this but I can’t believe that _you,_ ” his accusing finger shifts to Combeferre, “went _along with it._ ”

“You say that like it was of my own free will,” Combeferre says, and Grantaire notices for the first time how weary and harassed he looks. Which might actually be a first, for Combeferre. “You never told me your old friends could be so…persistent.”

Courfeyrac grins proudly but quails slightly when Enjolras’s furious gaze finds him again.

“It was a bit of a ridiculous idea, and very ill advised,” says a new voice. It turns out to be Cosette, who must have been hiding around a corner in case she needed to step in and help Combeferre in the scuffle. She comes now, looking exasperated but smiling, to stand in front of Enjolras. “But it was well meant. Your friends are idiots, but they love you.”

Enjolras takes a deep, steadying breath.

“We really do!” Joly puts in.

“Lots and lots!” adds Bossuet.

Enjolras takes another deep breath.

“I think you took about three years off my life,” he says finally. “So. I guess we’re even now.”

There’s a stunned silence, and then a collective sigh of relief when they see that, despite being scared half to death and getting his arm nearly twisted off, he’s wearing a reluctant sort of smile. Cosette beams and hugs him.

“Happy birthday,” she laughs.

“ _Happy birthday!”_ the others chorus, their exuberance restored, as they rush forward to bombard him. Combeferre and Grantaire watch from a safe distance as Enjolras is engulfed in an endless parade of hugs. Courfeyrac attempts to wrestle him into a party hat and half-succeeds.

“But seriously, how did you even pull this off?” Enjolras manages to gasp out in between being smothered by Joly and Bossuet.

“There’s nothing we can’t do when we put our minds to it,” Joly says with a grin that is far too innocent. “Like your friend Combeferre said, we’re persistent.”

“Really, it was just a matter of wrestling Combeferre’s contact details out of Cosette and Éponine, then calling Combeferre to tell him our plan, then travelling to Paris to convince him in person when he said it might not be the best plan…” Courfeyrac says. Enjolras holds up a hand to stop him.

“Actually, never mind, I probably don’t want to know,” he says.

“It was the best plan we could come up with!” Courfeyrac argues. “We _knew_ that if we called you and told you to come visit for your birthday, you’d just say you were _working_ and that it wasn’t important enough to disrupt your regularly scheduled monster slaying for.”

“That’s true, at least,” Combeferre says dryly. “Trying to get you to take any kind of break is always a trial.”

Grantaire doesn’t get a chance to say that getting Enjolras to take a day off isn’t _quite_ so difficult anymore, because that’s when Joly’s eyes find him. His whole face lights up.

“And this must be Grantaire!” he says. He sounds _very_ excited. He tears himself away from Enjolras and comes over to shake Grantaire’s hand vigorously. “Hi, hi, I’m Joly, it’s so, so nice to finally meet you!”

“Likewise,” Grantaire says with a bemused smile.

“Sorry about all this, we wanted to let you in on the whole thing too, but we didn’t know how to get in touch with you without Enjolras noticing.” Joly’s smile widens and becomes slightly less innocent. “You know, since you two spend so much time together.”

“Joly,” Enjolras says warningly, tugging the pointed party hat off his head only to have Courfeyrac immediately replace it with another one.

“What? It’s true,” Joly says, still grinning from ear to ear. “Wasn’t it mean of Enjolras not to introduce us properly in Lyon? We hardly even got a glimpse of you at the train station.”

“I’m a disgrace to the hunting community,” Grantaire informs him solemnly. “I have to be hidden away to protect their reputation.”

“That’s-” Enjolras starts to protest, but he’s drowned out by Joly’s laughter.

“That’s Bossuet,” he tells Grantaire, pointing. Then he nods towards the unfamiliar girl. “And that’s Musichetta! There you go, Enjolras, you can finally meet her in the flesh. See, she does exist.”

“I never said she didn’t,” Enjolras says, rolling his eyes as Musichetta comes over, laughing, to shake his hand. She’s all big dark eyes and round cheeks and dozens of braids cascading artfully down her back, and she’s small – but her short dress proudly shows off the defined dancer’s muscles in her legs, and Grantaire is willing to bet she’s about as delicate as Cosette.

“It’s nice to finally meet you for real,” Musichetta is saying. “You’re something of an urban legend in Lyon. And if it helps your first impression of me at all, I also thought this idea was a bit…much.”

“Oh shush, it was the _best_ idea,” Courfeyrac interjects. “Enjolras is secretly overcome with emotion. The good kind. And he’s going to be even more overcome when he sees what we _brought-”_

On that last word, he grabs Enjolras by the sleeve and drags him around Combeferre’s sofa to look at the low table behind it. Grantaire follows for a look and has to stuff a fist in his mouth to keep from laughing too much.

“…Wow,” Enjolras says with a blink after a moment. “You brought…a liquor store.”

“We sure did,” Courfeyrac says with a proud smile, casting a fond eye over the sea of bottles taking up a considerable amount of table and floor space.

“And…is that a piñata?”

“Yes it is.” Courfeyrac’s smile broadens. “Look, look, you even get a _cake._ ”

“A Power Rangers cake,” Bossuet puts in. “Courfeyrac assures us it was your favourite.”

“It’s totally still his favourite,” Courfeyrac says, tugging on the collar of Enjolras’s red coat. “Look at him, he’s the red ranger, out to protect us all from evil…”

Around this point, Combeferre slips out the apartment’s front door to retrieve all the incriminating luggage that Enjolras and Grantaire left on the landing, and Grantaire follows to help. By the time they get back, Enjolras’s friends have wrestled him onto the sofa and are plying him with drinks in paper cups but with colourful umbrellas sticking over the rim. Enjolras still looks a little shell-shocked, but he’s slowly starting to shake off his incredulity and relax a little, laughing at something Courfeyrac is saying. Grantaire catches Combeferre watching the scene with fond exasperation.

“Why do I get the feeling you wouldn’t have put up with this for anyone but Enjolras?” Grantaire says.

“He’s certainly lucky I like him so much,” Combeferre replies dryly.

“So what now?” Grantaire asks him.

“Well, after the time I’ve had contending with that lot, I intend to take full advantage of the absurd amount of alcohol they’ve brought into my home,” Combeferre replies. He shoots Grantaire an amused look. “I thought that would be your plan too?”

It does sound like an excellent plan, but- but. Seeing Enjolras there, surrounded by his old friends who went to such extreme lengths to see him on this day, it suddenly feels too much like intruding, just like it did in Lyon. He feels like too much of a reminder of the hunting world – most of the time he and Enjolras spent together is spent hunting and killing, after all – and he thinks Enjolras should be allowed this one night to feel ordinary again, to talk and laugh with his friends without having to worry about protecting his reputation as a hunter. Going over there and sitting down and joining in feels very much like the wrong thing to do.

At the far end of the room, there is a set of glass doors leading out onto a small balcony. When he is reasonably sure that everyone is quite absorbed in conversation, Grantaire slips out there, into the dark and quiet.

It’s nice, really. A little cold, maybe, but it’s not like that bothers him. He leans against the metal railing and watches Paris below and the sky above. A few stars are visible despite the bright lights of the city. He can hear a muffled rendition of the chatter inside, and he’s content enough.

He’s not sure how long he’s out there. Close to an hour, maybe? He’s never been very good at measuring short periods of time like that. After some time, though, he hears the glass door behind him slide open, and he doesn’t have to turn around to know that it’s Enjolras. He smiles in greeting as Enjolras joins him at the railing.

“Hello,” he says.

“Hi. What are you doing out here?” Enjolras asks him, folding his arms on top of the railing and tilting his head inquisitively. The cool night breeze stirs up his hair, and the artificial lights of the city below throw the planes of his face into sharp relief. He looks radiant. But, then, he always does.

“Needed some air,” Grantaire answers. Enjolras makes a small noise, something like a snort, that makes it quite clear that he doesn’t believe that.

“What about you, then?” Grantaire asks. “It’s your party, even if you didn’t ask for it. Why’re you out here?”

Enjolras shrugs.

“Needed some air,” he says with a faint smile.

Grantaire rolls his eyes.

“The two of us better get to breathing, then,” he says.

“It’s pretty warm in there. It’s kind of a relief to step outside,” Enjolras says, looking up towards the dark sky and taking a deep breath. His cheeks are flushed, undoubtedly from a combination of the stifling heat inside the crowded apartment and the alcohol that Courfeyrac keeps handing him. “You should come inside, though. When I go back in.”

“If I do, it’ll get even warmer in there,” Grantaire points out, shooting him a smile. Enjolras doesn’t return it; he peers at him, seeming caught between bemusement and concern.

“Are you scared of my friends?” he asks finally.

“What? No.” Grantaire laughs and shakes his head. “No, I just…” He waves a hand vaguely in the direction of the glass doors. “It feels like intruding, somehow.”

“Well, that’s dumb,” Enjolras says with all his usual delicacy. “Believe me when I say that they’re all dying to talk to you. Normally I’d do my best to shield you from their interrogating, but I’m getting sort of bombarded in there, so on this occasion I’m afraid I’m willing to throw you under the bus.”

Grantaire laughs again.

“You’re sure?” he asks. “In Lyon, I got the distinct impression that you didn’t want me and your civilian friends to be within a hundred feet of each other.”

“Well, that was back then.” Enjolras shifts slightly and dips his head. His eyes become obscured in shadow. “It was…a stupid thing. It wasn’t exactly _them_ that I didn’t want you to see. It was me, I guess. I was different around them than I was with you.” He looks up again and shrugs. “Not so much anymore.”

Grantaire looks back at him and says nothing because he knows that if he opens his mouth, all that will spill out is _I love you I love you I love you._

“Anyway, I think we’ll need to vacate this balcony soon,” Enjolras goes on. “I suspect it’s only a matter of time before Marius and Cosette will want to come out here for some romantic kissing under the Parisian night sky. They look like they’re struggling to keep their hands off each other in there.”

The spell breaks; Grantaire snorts with laughter.

“I’d certainly hate to deny them that,” he says.

“Good,” Enjolras says, looking satisfied.

They’re quiet for a little while. They can hear the din of the party from behind them but it’s still muffled by the doors, and Grantaire can’t help but think that it’s so _nice_ that the two of them can be content in silence together. He thinks back to the beginning of their partnership and wonders how they ever got here.

“Happy birthday, by the way,” he says suddenly.

“Thanks,” Enjolras says, and now it’s his turn to roll his eyes. “I still can’t believe they did this.”

“How come you didn’t tell me it was your birthday?” Grantaire asks. Enjolras shrugs again.

“It’s not really important, is it?” he says.

“Are you kidding?” Grantaire elbows him lightly. “Surviving another year is a big deal, especially for a hunter. What better reason to celebrate?”

“Alright, then, when’s your birthday?” Enjolras asks with a challenging look. “Unless it’s some time in the next month, then it’s passed already and you never mentioned it.”

Grantaire blinks, taken aback. It would be easy to lie and just pick a date, any date, wouldn’t it? But the thought of lying about even this little thing threatens to sour this moment, this whole _evening_ for him, because it reminds him that really, all of this is a lie – that things are so good right now, but only because he’s a _liar-_

“Grantaire?” Enjolras says uncertainly, dragging him back to reality.

“Sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “Just. I don’t really know when it is. My family never did the whole birthday thing.”

“…Oh.” Enjolras looks like he isn’t sure what to say to that.

“You should’ve told me yours was coming up though,” Grantaire scolds him, eager to lighten the mood again. “I would’ve got you a present.”

“Oh, really?” Enjolras smiles wryly and turns to face him, leaning sideways against the railing. “What would you have got me?”

Grantaire hums thoughtfully.

“Something pretty and useless,” he says finally with a grin. “Because I know that if I’d _asked_ you what you wanted, you’d have said something like ‘I’m running low on bullets’ or ‘I need a bone from a minor saint for this new hex bag I’m making’ or-”

“Shut up,” Enjolras says, smacking him on the arm – but he’s laughing.

“So yeah, I’d get you something eminently non-practical,” Grantaire goes on. “Like a big book about art. Or stupidly expensive aftershave. Or a voucher for free ice cream for a year.”

“Wow,” Enjolras says. “Now I really regret not telling you.”

“Your loss,” Grantaire says, putting his hands up apologetically.

“I suppose there’s always next year,” Enjolras says, and it makes the heart that Grantaire doesn’t even need leap to think that there might _be_ a next year; that Enjolras might want him to stay that long.

“As it is, you gave me no warning, so there’s really only one thing that I can give you at such short notice,” he says. Enjolras blinks.

“What’s that?” he asks.

“Well, technically you already have it,” Grantaire says. “So maybe this is cheating a little, but…”

“What is it?” Enjolras laughs, and he shifts closer – so close that Grantaire can feel the heat of his skin radiating against his own, and now his heart is pounding. He swears that the nearer Enjolras is to him, the more human he feels.

“My sword,” he manages to say as he fights not to be distracted by the fact that Enjolras’s face is so close to his own that he could practically count the tiny creases on his lips.

Enjolras blinks again.

“Your sword?” he repeats, like he’d completely forgotten it existed.

“We made a bargain, right?” Grantaire says. “You could borrow it, so long as I could come with you.”

“I remember,” Enjolras says with a nod.

“So now I’m giving it to you,” Grantaire says. “No bargains, no conditions. It’s a gift. It’s yours.”

He’s surprised when Enjolras suddenly looks uneasy.

“You don’t have to…” he starts to say.

“I want to,” Grantaire tells him. “It does more good in your hands.”

“But you said it was yours by _birth,_ that it came from your family…”

“Trust me, I don’t need a blade to help me remember my family,” Grantaire says with a dry smile. “I want you to have it. Always. To keep you safe. And the rest of the world too, I guess. But mostly you.”

He’s sure he must be imagining Enjolras’s face flushing even darker, but there’s no mistaking the sudden giddy pink glow in his soul, and not for the first time he wishes he knew what Enjolras was thinking as well as what he was feeling.

“Okay,” Enjolras says softly. “I…thank you.”

“I wish I could formally present it to you, but I think it’s in your coat pocket, hanging up in Combeferre’s hallway,” Grantaire laughs.

Enjolras just nods, looking a little dazed. Grantaire notices that his bare arms are covered in goose bumps.

“You’re going to catch a chill out here,” he says, reaching out to rub his arms with his hands. Enjolras lets out a small sound of surprise.

“How are you so _warm?_ ” he asks, latching onto his arms with his own very cold fingers.

“I always run hot,” Grantaire says, trying to ignore the fact that they are now _even closer._ Enjolras doesn’t let go. He looks Grantaire in the face and his tongue peeks out to wet his lips nervously and Grantaire honestly thinks he might just pass out.

“Grantaire, listen, you really didn’t-” Enjolras starts, but he cuts himself off when he is interrupted by the sound of enthusiastic applause. They both look around in surprise, and then jump apart guiltily when they see Joly and Bossuet on the other side of the glass, clapping loudly. As they watch, Courfeyrac smacks them both over the head.

“What did you do that for?” he’s howling. “They were having a goddamn _moment,_ it was so _beautiful,_ why’d you have to kill it?”

“I couldn’t help it, it was _too_ beautiful,” Joly wails in reply as Courfeyrac starts beating him with a cushion. “I had to let them _know._ ”

Enjolras sighs.

“Should we go inside?” Grantaire asks him, trying not to laugh.

“I suppose,” Enjolras says, opening the door. “Someone needs to supervise these children.”

~

Once they’re inside, Courfeyrac tells everyone to sit down – there’s a lot of shuffling around and pushing, and Grantaire ends up in the middle of the overcrowded sofa, with Enjolras pressed up against his left side and Joly to his right. He gets the distinct impression that none of this was accidental.

“So, Grantaire,” Courfeyrac says finally. He’s wearing a grin, and something about it is making Enjolras squirm. “We’ve been thinking, and we’ve decided that the current situation is very unfair to us all.”

“What situation is that?” Grantaire asks, bemused.

“Well. I’ve known Enjolras since primary school, Joly and Bossuet have known him since high school, and Marius has known him since university. You only know him as a cool, badass monster-hunter. Which means, obviously, that we have an excess of dumb embarrassing stories that you’re missing out on, and you have a bunch of cool badass stories that we’re missing out on.”

“I don’t like where this is going,” Enjolras says.

“Then what do you propose?” Grantaire asks mock-seriously, leaning back and taking a drink from the cup someone had pushed into his hands.

“I think we should have a little question and answer session,” Courfeyrac says. His grin is positively wicked. Enjolras makes a squawking noise of protest.

“We’re really going to torment the birthday boy like that?” Grantaire says.

“We could make a game of it,” Joly pipes up brightly.

“What sort of game?” Enjolras asks suspiciously.

“A drinking game, naturally,” Joly says, holding up the bottle of vodka he’s currently pouring from. “If someone asks a question and you let it be answered, the person who asked it has to take a drink. If you won’t let it be answered, you have to take a drink, Enjolras.”

“…This is going to end horribly,” Enjolras says with sullen resignation, sinking deeper into the cushions.

“You can start, Grantaire,” Courfeyrac says generously. “You have so much to get caught up on.”

Grantaire casts a look at Enjolras, who looks back at him with an expression that is sort of challenging and full of feigned indifference. _Go ahead, ask what you like, it’s not like I_ care, _but there is a line and if you cross it I’ll probably kill you…_

Really, this is everything Grantaire has ever wanted – a perfect opportunity to find out more about Enjolras before he was a hunter. And he doesn’t think they exactly have Enjolras’s blessing, but he doesn’t seem like he’s going to actively put up a fight.

“…Did he cry on his first day at school?” he asks finally, looking at Courfeyrac, who laughs.

“Wow, that’s going way back,” Courfeyrac says. “Can I tell him, Enjolras?”

“Not much to tell,” Enjolras says with affected boredom.

“No, he didn’t cry,” Courfeyrac says. “In fact, he was extremely judge-y towards the kids who _did_ cry. He looked like such a little cherub, but he was a heartless little demon.”

Enjolras groans. Grantaire hides his smile by taking a drink, as per the rules.

“How did you two meet?” Joly all but demands, clearly deciding it is now his turn. He looks very excited. “Enjolras never told us properly, he’s terrible at that sort of thing.”

“Um.” Grantaire glances at Enjolras, who gives him a long-suffering nod. “It’s not very interesting, really. We were just in the same place at the same time?”

“Details, please,” Bossuet says.

“Er. I was hanging out in, y’know, hunter HQ, and Enjolras was there talking to Combeferre, and I know most of the people I see in there but I didn’t recognise Enjolras so. I thought I’d say hello?” Grantaire pauses to shoot Enjolras a smile. “You didn’t like that.”

“You didn’t just come to ‘say hello’,” Enjolras argues without heat. “You were being an asshole, admit it.”

“I was just pulling your pigtails,” Grantaire says, waving a hand. “Have pity, Enjolras, it’s not often we see a face as pretty as yours in the Musain, how was I meant to know how to act-?”

He’s cut off when Enjolras elbows him sharply in the ribs.

“We met through Grantaire being an asshole, is the point,” Enjolras says. He’s gone bright red, and he downs a drink despite it not technically being his turn to do so. Next to Grantaire, Joly has his hands clasped underneath his chin and looks just about ready to explode with glee.

“How did you start working together, then?” Bossuet asks. “If you got off to such a bad start.”

“Hey, isn’t it my turn to ask a question?” Grantaire says, grinning.

A lot of questions are fired back and forth over the next few hours – Enjolras’s friends end up getting almost the complete account of their travels together thus far, and Grantaire learns all sorts of interesting things, including but not limited to: Enjolras’s favourite Halloween costume as a kid (the red Power Ranger), his best and worst school subjects (he was good at everything except art), that he was a model student in terms of attendance and academic achievement, but tormented his teachers with uncomfortable questions about the things they _weren’t_ being taught, and wouldn’t hesitate to get himself and others bloody if his friends were slighted in any way. He and Courfeyrac queued at the midnight releases of the last three _Harry Potter_ books. He was on the debate team in high school and, on one occasion, reduced an opponent to tears.

Enjolras takes most of this with dignity and doesn’t veto many questions, at least not until everyone starts getting drunker and the questions start getting more probing and ridiculous. He even refuses one of Courfeyrac’s questions before he even asks it.

“You’re going to ask something awful, I can tell by the look on your face!” he says, pointing. “No, don’t, you’re not allowed!”

“Fine, then drink, you coward!” Courfeyrac yells back, pouring a hideous concoction of spirits into a cup and shoving it at him. Enjolras grabs it and gulps it down, and the taste makes him wince painfully, but he still seems to think it was a small enough price to pay for stopping Courfeyrac.

When it comes round to Grantaire’s turn again, he deliberately tries to think of a question that won’t be too distressing, but accidentally manages to do the complete opposite.

“First crush?” he asks.

There’s a definite squeak from his left. On his right, Joly opens his mouth to say something, but is stopped by Enjolras literally throwing himself over Grantaire to clamp a hand over his mouth.

“Don’t you dare,” he yelps.

“…That’s a no, then?” Bossuet says in amusement. Grantaire doesn’t trust himself to say anything while he has a lap full of Enjolras.

“No, no, no,” Enjolras confirms, finally releasing Joly and sitting back again, allowing Grantaire’s higher brain function to return.

“Well now I’m very curious,” he says.

“Too bad,” Enjolras huffs. He’s bright red again. And, Grantaire realises belatedly, he’s more than a little drunk, too.

“I’m sure one of your friends will tell me when your back is turned,” Grantaire says with a teasing smile.

“They wouldn’t dare,” Enjolras declares. “And if you even ask them, I’ll…” He pauses to think for a moment. “I’ll set your sketchbooks on fire.”

While Grantaire clutches his chest in mock-horror, there is general clamour from the others, with demands to see these sketchbooks. And so, shortly, their luggage is ransacked and Grantaire’s sketchbooks are spread out on the floor and Courfeyrac, Joly and Bossuet are ogling over them. Marius fell asleep a little while ago and is curled up in an armchair, whilst Cosette and Musichetta became quite bored with the question-asking game and set themselves up in a corner to have a conversation of their own. Grantaire and Enjolras are therefore left alone on the sofa – though, despite there now being plenty of room, neither of them moves to put any space between them. Enjolras is actually lounging slightly against Grantaire’s side, looking sleepy and content.

“My friends are idiots,” he says at length.

“Maybe a little,” Grantaire agrees with a small smile as Joly starts cooing over one drawing in particular. He suspects it might be the sketch he did of Enjolras in Amsterdam.

“I still like them, though,” Enjolras says. He sighs. “I wish Jehan was here. Then all my friends would be here.” He pauses. “Well, there’s Bahorel too. But he wouldn’t come. I think he hates me.”

“You could call Jehan,” Grantaire suggests, steering them away from that morbid line of conversation. Enjolras thinks about this but eventually shudders.

“No,” he says. “He’d yell at me for not telling him it was my birthday.”

“Maybe you should just start telling people these things,” Grantaire says. Enjolras hums vaguely in agreement.

“Woah, hey!” Courfeyrac exclaims suddenly, looking over at them. “No falling asleep! You haven’t even blown out your candles yet!”

They actually make him do it, too: they turn out the lights and light the candles and they _sing,_ and Enjolras just sits there and manages to look both pleased and totally mortified. And Grantaire sits and watches and smiles and just wonders at the fact that this is okay now; that he’s _allowed_ to see dumb moments like these.

Not long afterwards, nearly everyone is starting to look tired, and they decide to call it a night. The Lyon contingent are staying at a nearby hostel, and Combeferre gives Enjolras and Grantaire the keys to one of his many, many empty apartments across the city to save them having to book into a hotel at this time of night. Grantaire offers to stay and help clean up (because, after all, it’s not like _he’s_ tired) but Combeferre waves him off and tells him to just to make sure that Enjolras gets to bed safely.

“Carry him if you have to,” he says, earning a splutter of protest from Enjolras.

Luckily for Enjolras’s pride, Grantaire doesn’t end up having to carry him anywhere. They allow themselves the luxury of taking a cab to the apartment, and Enjolras dozes a little during the journey but wakes up upon arrival.

“I’m still having a hard time believing tonight actually happened,” he murmurs as they let themselves in.

“Me too,” Grantaire agrees, though he suspects they’re each feeling disbelieving about very different aspects of the evening.

Enjolras looks ready to fall asleep on his feet, but he still manages to shrug out of his coat and retrieve Grantaire’s sword from inside it – Grantaire knows he likes to sleep with it to hand – and then- he stops. He looks down at the blade in his hands with a pensive, troubled expression.

“Don’t even bother asking if I’m sure about giving it to you,” Grantaire tells him. “I’m sure. It’s yours.”

Enjolras’s troubled stare shifts to him instead. Here, in this darkened hallway, with his usually stern posture loosened by alcohol and tiredness, he looks oddly vulnerable. His eyes search Grantaire’s face.

“What is it?” Grantaire asks. Enjolras’s mouth twists.

“You’re still going to come with me, right?” he says finally. “Just because we don’t have that stupid deal anymore, you’re not going to…?”

Grantaire blinks at him, once, twice. Then he laughs, because laughing is easier than actually thinking about the fact that Enjolras is _asking him to stay-_

“I’m pretty sure I’ve said it before,” he says. “You’re stuck with me for as long as you’ll put up with me.”

Enjolras peers at him a little longer, as if trying to read his honesty from his face, and at length appears satisfied.

“Okay,” he says, and he smiles, and Grantaire’s heart feels like it’s bouncing about in his chest. He’s starting to wonder if his vessel is actually malfunctioning.

Even after Enjolras is asleep, Grantaire doesn’t let himself think about the wider implications of this night – that Enjolras is no longer concerned with looking ridiculous in front of him, that Enjolras let him ask his friends questions about him, that Enjolras asked him to stay-

No. Instead, he thinks about what would be the best kind of hangover-curing food to get in the morning.

Again, this is easier.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We should do something, though,” Enjolras says. He’s staring very fixedly at his laptop screen but his fingers aren’t moving, so he’s either looking at one very fascinating picture or nothing at all. “When the case is done with.”
> 
> “Yeah?” Grantaire says, feigning nonchalance to keep from spooking him. “Is there something you want to see over there?”
> 
> “Nothing in particular, just…” Enjolras fidgets. Even from this angle, it’s clear to Grantaire that his laptop has gone to sleep and he really is just avoiding eye contact out of sheer awkwardness. “Y’know, it’s going to be…it’s been a year, since we started working together. In a few days, that is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IF ANYONE IS STILL HERE, SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG AHAHAHA
> 
> Also check out this beautiful [angel!Grantaire art](http://oreoandme.tumblr.com/post/111735049945/why-arent-you-afraid-x-grantaire-under-my) by [oreoandme](http://www.oreoandme.tumblr.com)!
> 
> Hope you enjoy the chapter! Come say hi on [tumblr](http://www.fivie.tumblr.com) if you like!

  

~

The airport is very busy. Airports generally are, in Grantaire’s experience. He’s only been on an airplane once before, out of sheer curiosity (it was slow and noisy and _weird_ ), but he’s spent some considerable time in airports. They’re a good place to people-watch. Because, y’know, they’re always so busy.

“I hate these places,” Enjolras mutters. “You have to queue for _everything._ ”

Grantaire laughs quietly. They are currently in the queue for check-in, and have been for quite some time. They are armed only with carry-on luggage and the very convincing fake passports Combeferre had whipped up for them. No weapons, of course. They have a case to investigate and they can’t do that if they’re in a jail cell for trying to smuggle guns and knives out of the country. Their weapons, including Grantaire’s blade (he wonders if he should start thinking of it as Enjolras’s, since he did give it to him), are locked up in a safe in Combeferre’s apartment until they get back. For Grantaire, it feels a little weird being so far from his sword, but he’s alright with it. By contrast, he can tell that Enjolras feels entirely too vulnerable temporarily living the life of a regular unarmed citizen. He’s been twitchy ever since they left Combeferre, and keeps glancing around like he expects all the monsters in France to somehow _know_ that this is a prime time to attack them and come running. His soul makes Grantaire think of an unhappy little rainstorm, and he knows the airport crowds aren’t helping. Enjolras might love humanity, but he definitely does not love the claustrophobic crush of people in large numbers.

The line moves forward incrementally. Enjolras makes a quiet noise that’s something between a groan and a whine. Grantaire laughs again.

“Do you want to go sit down somewhere?” he asks. “I can hold our place here until it’s our turn.”

“No, it’s fine.”

“I don’t mind.”

“It’s fine,” Enjolras repeats, rolling his eyes. “I’m just glad we don’t travel by air very often.”

“Yeah, this is an exciting first,” Grantaire says cheerfully. “We’re getting sent _overseas._ ”

“We’re not going all that far.”

“Maybe not, but we get to go on a plane and we get to stay in a fancy resort hotel and we’re going to be spending most of our time in bars and clubs.” Grantaire grins. “It’s like a regular vacation.”

“It’s not a vacation,” Enjolras reminds him in a low hiss, casting a look around to see if anyone is listening to them. They aren’t. Everyone else is far too excited, because they really _are_ going on vacation.

“It is according to our cover,” Grantaire sing-songs at him. Their story is that they are a couple of students going on a post-graduation party holiday, which is probably the truth for almost everyone else in the line. There is a group of guys in front of them wearing matching neon-coloured tank tops, with what Grantaire can only assume are their nicknames printed on the back. Behind them, there is a group of women who look slightly too old to be students – a hen party, perhaps – and they are wearing matching feather boas and pink cowboy hats.

“We should’ve got matching accessories,” Grantaire says under his breath. “It would’ve given extra credence to our story.”

He feels a small surge of triumph when Enjolras’s mouth twitches almost involuntarily into a smile.

“Did you want a feather boa?” he asks.

“I was thinking more like, leather jackets and wraparound shades,” Grantaire says. “Lots of spikes and studs on the jackets, to show we’re tough. And maybe our team name on the back.”

“We have a team name?”

“Well, we should. It’d be good for morale, and stuff. You can pick if you want.”

“No,” Enjolras says, but Grantaire can see he’s trying not to laugh.

“Or we could get matching tattoos. I could design them. It could be like, some hideous shambling combination of every type of monster we’ve ever hunted, with a big ‘X’ through it…”

“Shut _up_ ,” Enjolras says, but he’s lost this round – his shoulders are shaking with laughter and his smile is so wide that it’s crinkling his eyes and, ugh, he’s adorable. The hen party ladies are looking at him like they’re thinking exactly that, and Grantaire kind of wants to grab Enjolras by the shoulders and shove him towards them and yell _‘you see this cute little sunbeam? I’ve seen him straight-up slice more than one man’s head off. Clean off. You don’t believe me? Yeah, I wouldn’t believe me either.’_

“Anyway, there’s only _two_ of us,” Enjolras goes on. “If we got matching anything, we’d probably just look like a weird- couple.”

He goes red as soon as he says it, for reasons Grantaire can’t quite guess.

“Well, we can’t have that,” Grantaire says. “Can’t have anything tarnishing your ‘brooding loner’ persona.”

Enjolras just elbows him in the ribs.

They finally reach the front of the queue not long after and, having obtained their boarding passes, they can go and sit down at last. Unsurprisingly, they end up in the airport’s obligatory Starbucks.

“I feel like we should start some kind of coffee-rating blog,” Grantaire says while he sketches and Enjolras does something on his laptop. “I mean, we must have drank coffee in more European cities than the average person.”

“A lot more, I’d say,” Enjolras says, smiling faintly. “Coffee reviewers. You should suggest that to Combeferre as a cover story.”

Enjolras’s phone rings before they can ponder the idea further. It turns out to be Courfeyrac; Enjolras puts the phone on speaker and sets it down on the table. He’s been doing this ever since the surprise birthday party incident. It’s clear that, for whatever reason, Courfeyrac and the others are eager to welcome Grantaire into the fold, and Enjolras seems to have decided that they can’t embarrass him any more than they already have so he might as well just go with it.

_“_ Hello, my monster-killing friends," Courfeyrac greets them cheerfully.

“We’re in public, Courfeyrac,” Enjolras tells him.

“Hello, my completely ordinary student friends.”

“Hello,” they chorus back at him, making him laugh.

“How is normal civilian life today?” he asks.

“We’re just waiting on our flight,” Enjolras says.

“Ooh, yes, the exciting Majorca trip. I’m so jealous, it’s been a while since I partied in Magaluf in my wild youth.”

“We’re not going to party.”

“Grantaire, please drag him out for at least one night of partying once your work is done,” Courfeyrac pleads. “I pass this important responsibility onto you in my absence.”

“Hey, I don’t drag Enjolras anywhere,” Grantaire replies, smiling widely while Enjolras pulls a face. “If we party, it will have to be by mutual agreement.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll be able to get him to agree. Use all your rugged charm.”

“I’ll do my very best.”

“And Enjolras, I hope you remembered to pack the factor 50 sun cream.”

“This isn’t the first time we’ve gone somewhere warm, you know,” Enjolras says.

“Maybe not, but if you want to be incognito in Majorca, you’re going to have to blend in. That means chilling on the beach in shorts, sandals and a snap-back, and nothing else.”

“Yeah, that’s probably not happening.”

“Don’t forget to put sun cream on your back. Get Grantaire to help you if you can’t reach…”

“Oh, shut up.” Enjolras is going red again.

“Protection is very important, Enjolras! Sun protection, I mean. Of course, the other type of protection is important as well, always use a-”

“Oh, wow, they’re calling our flight, bye Courfeyrac,” Enjolras says, ending the call and stuffing the phone back in his pocket.

“You liar,” Grantaire says once he’s quite finished sniggering into his coffee.

“He deserved it.” Enjolras shakes his head. “Sorry if anything he says makes you uncomfortable. He really is only joking around. You’ll get used to him.”

“He’ll have to try harder than that to make me uncomfortable.”

“Oh God, don’t tell him so, he’ll take it as a challenge.”

“Poor Enjolras,” Grantaire laughs. “So sensible, and surrounded by such childishness.”

“I think you’re the first person to ever call me sensible.”

“That’s a point,” Grantaire concedes. He pauses, and then adds, “So, do you want to?”

“Want to what?”

“Party.” Grantaire grins and wiggles his hips and does the best impression of terrible club dancing he can while sitting down. “When the work is done, of course.”

“Not if those are your best dance moves,” Enjolras snorts, earning a distraught gasp. “Actually, I’m not really much of a party person.”

“You shock me,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras kicks him under the table.

“I mean I’ve never really liked clubbing,” he says. “It’s even more crowded than this place, and it’s so loud that you can’t even talk to anyone- And yes, I know people don’t go to clubs to talk, before you say anything, I’m just saying it’s not really for me.”

“That’s fair enough,” Grantaire says. He himself has always liked the noise and crush and flashing lights of nightclubs, but that’s because he’s always used them to try and drown out everything else in the world.

“We should do something, though,” Enjolras says. He’s staring very fixedly at his laptop screen but his fingers aren’t moving, so he’s either looking at one very fascinating picture or nothing at all. “When the case is done with.”

“Yeah?” Grantaire says, feigning nonchalance to keep from spooking him. “Is there something you want to see over there?”

“Nothing in particular, just…” Enjolras fidgets. Even from this angle, it’s clear to Grantaire that his laptop has gone to sleep and he really is just avoiding eye contact out of sheer awkwardness. “Y’know, it’s going to be…it’s been a year, since we started working together. In a few days, that is.”

Grantaire blinks at him.

“Really?” he says. He hadn’t been paying such close attention, and he’s frankly astounded that Enjolras has been.

“Yeah, it’s…yeah.” Enjolras manages to look up at him. “You didn’t know?”

“I, uh. I knew it was something close to that long, but I don’t know it right down to the exact day. I’m not so good with dates.” Grantaire shrugs then grins. “But wow, congratulations, you’ve put up with me for a whole year! Minus a few days.”

“I wonder how many years it’ll take for you to stop saying stuff like that,” Enjolras says, rolling his eyes.

“So what do you want to do?” Grantaire asks. “To commemorate this occasion.”

“I don’t know,” Enjolras says. “I just thought…”

He trails off. Grantaire doesn’t push him to finish the thought; he knows that Enjolras is absolutely terrible at asking for something that he wants instead of something that will benefit all of mankind. He thinks, instead, about what Enjolras might like to do at a tourist resort. Him not liking crowds is a bit of a problem, since everywhere is likely to be crowded. Somewhere open, maybe. Somewhere with lots of space.

“We could go to the beach,” Grantaire says. “If you wanted. It’ll be busy but I’m sure we could stake claim to a patch of sand. And we could send Courfeyrac photos of you in shorts and sandals, he’d freak out.”

Enjolras tilts his head to one side thoughtfully. A faint smile spreads over his face.

“I haven’t been to the beach in a _long_ time,” he says.

“I’ll even buy you an ice cream,” Grantaire says. Enjolras snorts.

“Wow, how could I say no,” he says.

Their flight really is called shortly after that; they get through security with time to spare, and spend a while wandering around duty-free. Grantaire debates buying Enjolras something ridiculous and expensive and presenting it to him with a yell of ‘ _happy anniversary!”_ but decides that this would most likely end in a concussion for him.

The flight itself goes smoothly, and is mostly quiet apart from the neon-tank-top gang, who had apparently indulged themselves at the airport bar and spend a lot of the time singing. They land at Palma and there is a coach waiting to take them to their hotel. Sadly, the neon tank tops are on the same coach, and they keep singing. Enjolras looks like he’d sort of like to punch at least one of them. Grantaire doodles caricatures of them in his sketchbook to distract him. It seems to work, mostly.

“Wow,” Grantaire says when they reach the hotel. He laughs. “This is more like it, huh?”

“I don’t know about you,” Enjolras says as he advances cautiously across the marble-floored lobby, “but I feel somewhat out of place.”

“That’s because the kind of hotels we’re used to come with a complimentary stick in the corner of the room, so you can beat the rats off by yourself.”

Their room is a lot more spacious than they’re used to, too – it is, in fact, more of a suite, with a separate living area adjoining the bedroom. Grantaire zips around excitedly, cataloguing all the luxuries.

“Working AC…a sofa…a _balcony_ …satellite TV…holy shit, _two bathrooms._ ”

“Just don’t get used to it,” Enjolras says, looking amused. “We’ll be back to the cheapest accommodation Europe has to offer soon enough, I expect.”

“Then we need to savour this,” Grantaire declares, going out onto the balcony. “Aw man, Enjolras, get out here and check out this view.”

From the balcony they can see an enormous stretch of beach – though at this time, in the middle of the afternoon, the sand is hardly visible for all the sunbathing holidaymakers. Grantaire squints for a moment, then points.

“We’re calling dibs on that spot right there,” he says.

“Where?” Enjolras asks, pressing up against his side to try and follow his line of sight.

“There! That small patch of sand sort of dangerously close to where those guys are playing volleyball.”

“I don’t see it.”

“It’s definitely there. And almost definitely big enough for two. It’s in a risky locale but I think we’re tough enough to deal with the threat of a volleyball to the face. Your reflexes are pretty good, right?”

“It’s so crowded,” Enjolras says, shaking his head in disbelief.

“We could always head down first thing in the morning. Race the German tourists for the best sunbeds,” Grantaire says, grinning. “Or we could go at night-time. Everyone else would be too busy getting drunk, we’d probably have the place to ourselves.”

“That could be nice,” Enjolras says with a small smile, before abruptly giving himself a shake. “But now’s not the time to be thinking about that. Work first.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Grantaire says. “Let’s get to work, then.”

They leave the hotel, though not before quickly changing clothes for the sweltering heat outside. Enjolras clearly isn’t quite ready to go as casual as shorts, but he puts on a pair of lightweight trousers and an extremely thin white t-shirt, which is just plain unfair of him if he expects Grantaire to be in any way focused on the case. He also dons a pair of sunglasses, and Grantaire knows they’re meant to be trying to blend in as tourists, but he’s pretty sure that Enjolras is going to attract even more attention than usual, strutting around looking like a damn runway model and wearing a shirt that anyone could easily count his abs through.

Grantaire himself has no serious reputation to uphold and so opts for shorts and a shirt he bought especially – a pale blue tank top with the words ‘SUN’S OUT, GUNS OUT’ emblazoned in screaming letters across the front.

“Let’s go get wasted, bro,” he says. Enjolras rolls his eyes. “What? Just getting into character.”

They’ve been given directions to a certain café where they’ll be met by Combeferre’s contacts on the island – because of course he has those. They were told that the people they should talk to would be sitting at an outside table, but when they reach the place the only people sitting outside are a pair of adorable old ladies sitting drinking tall glasses of cloudy lemonade and laughing heartily together. They really look far too sweet to have anything to do with the hunting world, but Grantaire supposes that’s true for Enjolras too. They approach a trifle uncertainly. The women must be better informed, though, because the moment they catch sight of them they get to their feet and greet them like beloved grandsons, which is probably the impression they’re trying to give to passers-by. There’s a lot of cooing and hugging and cheek-kissing – Grantaire takes it with flirty good humour which earns him an affectionate smack on the arm, while Enjolras struggles through the charade with a strained-looking smile. Grantaire watches him and feels an almost unbearable fondness – he loves that Enjolras just _can’t_ fake affection, he loves knowing that every easy smile he coaxes from him can be nothing but genuine.

The women introduce themselves as Carmen and Francesca, and then it’s time to get down to business.

“So,” Carmen says once they’re all seated at the table, “you’re our big tough hunters.”

“Combeferre said you were young, but _my_ ,” Francesca says, reaching over and pinching Enjolras’s cheek. “Be careful you don’t get that pretty face smashed up, dear, it’d be such a shame. Why, if I were forty years younger…”

She cackles, and Grantaire can see Enjolras trying to remain compose even as his face flares red.

“Do you have the things we need?” he asks.

“Of course,” Francesca says. Under the table, she uses her foot to push a blue rucksack towards Enjolras. “We’d be hunting the thing ourselves if, again, forty years younger.”

“Combeferre said he thinks it’s a djinn,” Enjolras says. “Would you agree?”

“Yes,” Carmen says immediately. Her mouth puckers in distaste. “For a few months now, people have been showing up disorientated and hallucinating and weak from blood loss. The police are saying it’s some kind of new drug, but no.”

“It is a new drug,” Francesca says dryly. “It’s djinn venom.”

“And now someone’s turned up dead,” Enjolras says.

“That’s right. And they won’t be the last, if you two don’t kill the damn thing.”

“The whole thing doesn’t seem to be deterring the tourists much,” Grantaire remarks. Francesca snorts.

“You think they know?” she says. “It’s the height of the season. This is when this place makes its money. Everything’s being kept very quiet.”

“What?” Enjolras looks outraged. “They can’t do that!”

“Seems they can,” Carmen says, eyeing him balefully. “You could try to stop them, but it’d probably be more helpful if you went to the root of the problem instead.”

“Yes, go kill the bastard,” Francesca says cheerfully. “My, I miss those days. Come see us when you’re done and we’ll celebrate. And drink something stronger than this swill.”

She gestures to the lemonade. Carmen pats her on the back of the hand.

“Now, dear, you’re supposed to be cutting back,” she says mildly.

Enjolras and Grantaire take the backpack and leave before they can get caught up in any bickering.

“Just think, that could be us in like fifty years,” Grantaire says, sniggering. “‘Grantaire, you’re supposed to be cutting back!’”

Again, Enjolras unexpectedly blushes for no reason Grantaire can fathom.

“You’re always telling me I’m going to die young,” Enjolras says. “Now we’re going to last another fifty years and retire to an island somewhere?”

“A guy can dream,” Grantaire says with a quick grin.

He wonders if maybe it’s just the sun that’s making Enjolras go so red.

~

Back at the hotel, they inspect the contents of the rucksack. There’s a handgun for each of them and a frankly alarming number of bullets, but they know those won’t be of much use as anything but a distraction – the real weapons are the silver knives, and the grisly jars filled with lamb’s blood.

“I wish there was a less messy way to kill a djinn,” Enjolras says, opening one of the jars and wrinkling his nose.

“Have you ever hunted one before?” Grantaire asks.

“No. Have you?”

“No.” He’s never had need to go toe-to-toe with a djinn before, but he doesn’t doubt that he’d emerge unscathed from a confrontation with one.

“We’d both better be careful, then,” Enjolras says with a nod.

“We always are,” Grantaire replies. Enjolras gives him a deadpan look. “Okay, you always are.”

“Combeferre hasn’t been able to pinpoint exactly where the victims were attacked, but from what he can gather, they were all picked up by emergency services in this area.” Enjolras points to the map he has spread out on the room’s generously sized actual-solid-oak coffee table. Grantaire is having a hard time taking it seriously, since it’s a brightly coloured ‘party map’ they found in the hotel lobby, and it shows nothing but the locations of bars and clubs along with badly drawn caricatures of people drinking beer. He sobers, however, when Enjolras’s expression darkens. “And the person who died was found here, on this street.”

“So we start there?”

“Yes.”

“Seems strange that only one person has died, doesn’t it?” Grantaire muses. “Do you think the djinn is trying to feed without killing?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Enjolras says flatly. “It hasn’t succeeded.”

They have a satchel each for this job; Enjolras starts packing the lamb’s blood and knives into each of them. Grantaire knows the bags have a concealed compartment for these things, but he still can’t hope that neither of them gets searched too thoroughly by bouncers.

“It seems likely that the djinn is targeting people who are out at night, presumably because drunk people are easy targets,” Enjolras goes on. “It’s impossible to tell if it’s working out of a specific bar, though, or which one if it is. So we have the best chance of finding it quickly if we split up.” Grantaire makes a very unhappy noise. “Oh, don’t do that.”

“First you say we’re going to be careful, then you say we’re splitting up and working alone,” Grantaire complains.

“We can do both,” Enjolras says. “Come on, you know it’ll go a lot faster.”

“I’d rather have us both alive than finish work early.”

“We only have to _find_ the thing individually. We’ll have our phones, if we find it we can call for back-up.”

Grantaire glowers at him.

“Promise you will,” he says finally.

“What?”

“If you find it, promise you’ll call for help and not be an idiot and try to take it on yourself.”

“Alright, fine,” Enjolras says, rolling his eyes. “Happy?”

“I’d be happier if we were sticking together,” Grantaire says, folding his arms sulkily.

“It’ll be fine,” Enjolras says, exasperated. “We’ll each start at one end of this street and work our way along the bars and clubs.”

“And meet in the middle for cocktails at the end of the night?” Grantaire asks with a grin.

“Only if we manage to kill the thing before the bars close,” Enjolras says, smiling faintly.

~

It’s a little cooler outside when they head out that night. When they reach the long, sloping street that they’ll be investigating – which, unsurprisingly, seems to consist of little else than clubs and bars – Enjolras offers to start at the far end. Grantaire watches him walk away and privately hopes that he can find the djinn himself before Enjolras does. Enjolras might have promised, but Grantaire doesn’t trust him to take the time to call for help if he thinks a civilian might be in immediate danger. He sighs and goes into the first bar.

He has an advantage over Enjolras, since he’ll be able to recognise a djinn just by looking at them, no matter how well disguised or cloaked they are. He makes full use of this advantage; he scans crowds of dancers and the queues at the bars and the couples making out in dark corners, searching for anything that looks even remotely not human, and he moves on quickly every time he finds nothing untoward.

He’s in the fourth bar and getting antsy when he sees it.

In all honesty, the scene is creepy enough that he would have been tempted to intervene even if both parties involved had only been human. There’s a young girl, in her late teens or early twenties, and she’s clearly had a little too much to drink – but by her glazed-over eyes and vacant, lost smile, it’s clear that something other than alcohol is in her system, too. And there’s a man sitting next to her; an older man, with a shaved head and dark tattoos running from his neck all the way down his arms, and he keeps _touching_ her – her face, her shoulder, any bit of bare skin he can reach. Which, again, creepy as all hell – but even worse when you could see, as Grantaire can see, that those tattoos aren’t really tattoos at all, that the man is about as human as the couch he’s sitting on, that there is a current of electric blue magic coursing just beneath his marked skin. And he isn’t just touching her; he’s poisoning her. Skin on skin contact is all a djinn needs to transfer its poison to an unsuspecting person.

Grantaire narrows his eyes, and all the lights in the bar pop.

People scream in the sudden pitch darkness, but it doesn’t hinder Grantaire; in a flash, he’s crossed the room and dragged the djinn off the girl, and then he flies himself and the djinn to the most remote place he can think of off the top of his head.

The stretch of the Sahara Desert he brings them to is frighteningly dark and quiet, lit only by the moon and stars overhead. The djinn is struggling in his hold, looking around wildly in utter confusion. It brings its hands up to the one Grantaire has around its neck, and he can tell it’s trying to poison him, trying to do anything to get free and figure out what the hell just happened, but it’s all to no avail. It stares at Grantaire, its eyes glowing blue but still filled with terror. Grantaire says nothing; just drops the djinn to the ground and keeps it there with a foot on its chest while he roots in his bag for the knife and lamb’s blood. He’s sure a reasonable burst of Grace would reduce the thing to ashes, but best to save that for emergencies.

“What are you?” the djinn wheezes up at him.

“A monster, same as you,” Grantaire informs it before sliding the bloody knife between its ribs and into its heart.

He leaves the body there in the desert. He doesn’t think it likely that anyone will find it, and it’d make for a good mystery if they did.

He flies back, invisible, to the bar to find it still in chaotic darkness. The music has been turned off and the staff are trying to evacuate the customers with flashlights until they can find out just what caused all of their lights to suddenly fail.

“Sorry about that,” Grantaire murmurs, coming back fully. The girl that the djinn had been targeting is still slumped on the same couch, looking dazed and confused. Grantaire goes over and takes her gently by the arm.

“Come on, we need to go outside now,” he tells her. He’s not sure if she really hears or understands him, but she nods and lets him lead her out into the pleasant night air.

“Are you here on your own?” Grantaire asks her. “Do you have friends somewhere?”

“Um,” she says, staring around her with wide, glassy eyes. Probably hallucinating up a storm. He hates monsters that mess with people’s minds. Looking at her, he doesn’t think she received anything close to a lethal dose of the djinn’s poison, but he can’t leave her alone while she’s still like this.

“Is there someone I can call for you?” he tries. “Do you have a phone?”

As it turns out, she does have a phone in her purse, and after some time she manages to unlock it, and Grantaire manages to get in touch with her friends. They come running, shrieking, down the street in record time, grabbing the girl in tearful hugs and scolding her for wandering off on her own. Grantaire watches to make sure they all get safely into a taxi back to their hotel before he moves on.

He decides that he’s going to go to the bar that he and Enjolras had planned to regroup in at the end of the night if they didn’t find anything on their respective sides of the street. He could call Enjolras right now, could go and find him and tell him that the job is done, but he thinks this is an even better idea. He can sit and have a drink (or three) and he can come up with a cover story about how he took down the djinn and what he did with the body. And Enjolras will come trudging in, maybe in about an hour, and he’ll look despondent because he didn’t find the monster and he’ll assume Grantaire didn’t either, but then Grantaire can smile smugly at him and tell him that it’s over, it’s done, and Enjolras will be so surprised, and he might complain that Grantaire didn’t call for help but he might smile too, in that way that makes Grantaire feel warm right down to his toes. And then they can relax. Maybe Enjolras will get a drink too, and they’ll talk and laugh for a while. Maybe they can make plans to go to the beach tomorrow. Or they could go right now, and walk along the sand in the quiet dark. Grantaire has to admit that he’s not particularly picky. He likes doing just about anything with Enjolras.

This all seems like a grand plan, until over an hour passes and Enjolras still hasn’t appeared. Grantaire catches himself watching the clock on the wall, and takes that to mean that he is sufficiently bored. He gives up and takes out his phone and calls Enjolras to tell him to hurry up.

It rings. And rings. And rings.

After almost a full minute of ringing, Grantaire hangs up, shaking his head. He supposes Enjolras might not be able to hear it if he’s in a club with loud music playing. And it’s not like it’s out of character for Enjolras to take longer than necessary when searching for something; he prides himself on being thorough.

And there’s no danger, he reminds the small part of his mind that is already beginning to fret. The monster is dead. The worst thing that could happen to Enjolras at this point would be getting beer spilled all over him, or something.

Still, he supposes he should go find him. If Enjolras is still vainly searching at this point, he’s probably getting himself stressed out.

He gets to his feet and goes back outside. He starts to amble along Enjolras’s end of the street, weaving in and out of the rambunctious crowds and idly scanning for that bright, bright star-soul he knows so well.

He feels the first stab of real, cold panic when he realises that he can’t find it – can’t find _Enjolras._

His soul is usually a beacon, radiating golden light and righteousness, its warmth and brilliance leading Grantaire to its source as effortlessly as a string connecting him and Enjolras across miles. He knows that soul, he _loves_ that soul, its very essence calls to him and makes it as easy for him to find as his own foot.

But right now, he can’t find it anywhere. He can’t see or feel or sense it, no matter how many times he frantically sweeps the area, and that can’t be, because that would mean that Enjolras is _gone,_ or-

Someone bumps into him, and he realises that he’s standing stock-still in the middle of the street.

He gives himself a sharp shake. There’s no sense in panicking. The problem is more likely to lie with _him_ than with Enjolras – maybe his Grace is fading, maybe he’s finally been cut off from the power of the Host. Because, he reminds himself again, Enjolras is definitely fine because there is _nothing out there to hurt him._ He killed the djinn himself, he _knows_ it’s dead, and any human who tried to start something with Enjolras was more than likely to end up in the emergency room.

So, yes, clearly something is wrong with him. His perception is off, his Grace is being inhibited, he’s been reduced to basic human senses, _something._ Funny how the idea doesn’t scare him. Not compared to the alternative.

Manual searching it is, then. Grantaire doesn’t like how time-consuming that promises to be, especially with how rattled he already feels. He hopes Enjolras isn’t far.

He’s not in the first bar he checks. Or the second. But just as he’s about to leave the second bar, he sees something out of the corner of his eye – a flash of electric blue.

He feels shuddering black horror lodge itself in the pit of his stomach.

A djinn stands at the bar, laughing along indulgently with a very drunk British man who is loudly slurring some story or other. This djinn appears female, and as Grantaire stares, transfixed, it rests one hand on the drunk man’s bare forearm to start poisoning him.

Grantaire snaps out of his dread-filled daze and crosses the room far too quickly for a human, but he doesn’t care who sees. He grabs the djinn by the wrist and hauls it around.

“Where is he?” he demands in a low hiss. The air around him crackles faintly. The djinn stares up at him first with annoyance and then, like the previous one, with terrified disbelief.

“ _Where is he?_ ” Grantaire repeats. “What did you do with him?”

“He-hey there, mate,” the British man, who clearly doesn’t know how lucky he is, slurs out, clapping a meaty hand down on Grantaire’s shoulder. “Let’s not- let’s not get carried away.”

Grantaire growls in frustration, and this time, the lights don’t just pop – they _explode._ There are sparks and smoke and more screaming and the ear splitting wailing of a fire alarm, but Grantaire just does not care. He’s flying again.

He doesn’t even know where he’s brought them this time – they’re on top of a mountain somewhere. He holds the djinn up by its throat, its feet barely touching the ground.

“Where is he?” he asks one more time.

“Who? What are you talking about?” the djinn gasps out, its hands scrabbling at him, at the air, at anything.

“Human. Young, blond. A hunter,” Grantaire says, pressing a little harder on its windpipe. “He was looking for you. I assume he found you. I found your friend.”

“My…?” the djinn starts to ask before clearly deciding it doesn’t matter. “I-I haven’t seen any hunter. There aren’t any hunters around here-”

“Don’t lie to me!” Grantaire thunders – and, indeed, thunder rolls overhead. “You did something to him while I was busy killing your friend, we didn’t know there were two of you-”

He cuts himself off. All of them – himself, Enjolras, Combeferre – had assumed there was only one monster here – but they’d been wrong. Now the real question was, exactly _how_ wrong had they been?

“Are there more of you?” he asks. “On the island, in the area?”

The djinn makes a small choking noise but says nothing. Grantaire scowls and uses his free hand to send a pulse of Grace into its abdomen – not to heal, but to harm, to constrict and crush organs and rupture veins and fracture ribs. The djinn gives a gurgling scream.

“Yes!” it wails. “Yes, there are more of us, yes!”

“How many?” Grantaire demands. “Tell me or I kill you.”

“You’ll kill me anyway,” the thing moans. “Whatever you are.”

“It can be quick and painless or it can take all night.”

“You don’t want to take your time killing me,” the djinn wheezes, something like a cold smile crossing its face. “Not when you could be…hunting for your hunter.”

“How many?” Grantaire asks again.

“I hope one of the others has him. I hope you never find him.”

“ _How many?_ ”

“Lots,” the djinn says with a blood-stained smile.

This one never sees the knife or lamb’s blood. Grantaire vaporises it with an angry burst of Grace before flying back to continue his search with renewed urgency.

He soon realises, with mounting despair, that the sky is starting to lighten on the horizon, and the bars and clubs are starting to close. He searches as many as he can, asks as many people as will listen if they’ve seen a blond boy, early twenties, kind of scary, very beautiful? He vainly searches for a sparking glimpse of Enjolras’s soul, sending out questing waves in ever-increasing diameter, but there’s nothing, _nothing._

He wants to stay, wants to tear this whole resort apart brick by brick until he finds Enjolras, but he has to calm down, has to be careful, has to be smart. There are more djinn here, and he doesn’t know how many. He doesn’t know if they snatched Enjolras just as a victim, or if they realised he’s a hunter. But if they’re keeping him somewhere, if he’s alive ( _he is he is he has to be_ ), they’re more likely to keep him that way for longer if they don’t think anyone is looking for him. If Grantaire starts ripping buildings from their foundations, if the monsters realise they’re being threatened, they’re going to try and clear out – and they won’t want to leave loose ends.

He forces himself to return to the hotel.

He stands outside their room’s closed door for a long, stupid moment – it’s almost possible to believe that he’ll open the door and Enjolras will be there, on his laptop or on his phone or curled up safe in bed, as he should be.

He goes inside. The room is dark and empty.

He doesn’t bother with lights. He knows what he needs to do now, and he doesn’t relish the thought. He takes out his phone.

“Hello, you two,” Combeferre says, sounding sleepy, when he picks up. Something twists painfully in Grantaire’s gut – of course Combeferre would assume that he and Enjolras are calling in to report their job completed. Of course he would assume that everything is fine.

“Hello? Can you hear me?” Combeferre says after a moment of silence.

“Enjolras is missing,” Grantaire forces himself to say.

“What?” Combeferre says. Suddenly, he doesn’t sound sleepy anymore.

“He’s gone. I can’t find him. We split up, I didn’t want to but…There’s more than one djinn, Combeferre, I killed one and I thought we were safe but he’s _gone-_ ”

It’s with conscious effort that he stops talking long enough to let Combeferre absorb that much.

“I don’t understand,” Combeferre says finally. He sounds confused, more than anything. “How could you lose him…?”

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire says. “I’m sorry, I should’ve…”

“No, no, I didn’t mean…” Combeferre sighs. “I just didn’t know it was actually possible for you to lose him.”

Grantaire blinks.

“What?” he says.

“Tell me everything,” Combeferre says instead of answering him. “Everything you know. Then we can decide on the best plan to find him.”

_If he’s still alive._ The words go unspoken, but hang ominously in the air nonetheless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who's never seen Supernatural, djinn are monsters that feed on human blood! However, they 'poison' their victims first - the poison of a djinn makes a person experience vivid hallucinations and, with a high enough dosage, fall into a coma-like state while the djinn feeds on them over a period of days or weeks. For a full description, check out the Supernatural Wiki!
> 
> And hey, want to know what Enjolras is up to? Check out his POV over at 'I Will Fear No Evil (For You Are With Me)'!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If you can’t track Enjolras, then you’ll have to track the djinn themselves.”
> 
> “Interrogating them hasn’t proved terribly fruitful so far,” Grantaire says. He doesn’t imagine he’ll have better luck with any other djinn he finds – they’ll all be able to tell that he’ll kill them no matter what information they give him, and that isn’t exactly incentive to talk.
> 
> “You don’t need to interrogate them. You just need to find one and follow it,” Combeferre says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh shit......it's been so long.......sorryyyyy here have a long chapter just in time for Halloween :'D
> 
> to whoever's still hanging around and reading this, thank you for your patience :')

 

~

Grantaire stands on the deserted beach in the dim dawn light, staring numbly down at the sand under his feet.

After listening to his frantic recounting of the night’s events, Combeferre’s immediate suggestion had been to track Enjolras’s cell phone. Grantaire had felt a powerful surge of relief because _of course._ Of course human technology would be the solution; of course it would be the one thing he didn’t think of.

Combeferre had tracked the phone on his laptop before emailing Grantaire the resulting map. Grantaire had to exercise a great deal of willpower to stop himself from just flying straight to the destination, because God knows he’s used enough Grace already tonight, and Combeferre, who was awaiting updates, would be naturally suspicious if he got there instantaneously. So he walked – almost ran, really, every part of him thrumming with hope and a nameless feeling that just felt like an endless chanting of _please, please please-_

But Enjolras wasn’t waiting at the destination on the map. It led Grantaire all the way down to the promenade, and then it got a little vague – he realised quickly that the signal was coming from the beach itself. And the beach was empty – he _knew_ it was empty – but he searched anyway, and he found Enjolras’s phone half-buried in the sand, a spider-web of deep cracks covering most of the screen.

Grantaire picks the phone up and just looks at it, as if it might impart some kind of clue to him. It’s clearly been stood on – deliberately, he assumes. The djinn must have taken it from Enjolras, made a cursory attempt at breaking it, and then threw it here. Grantaire hates them; hates that they knew better than he did that they could use Enjolras’s phone to track him, hates that maybe if he’d just thought of it _sooner_ then maybe they wouldn’t have had time to dispose of it yet-

The phone is clearly beyond repair – it’s a miracle that the GPS signal still worked at all. Still, Grantaire pockets it. It feels like a talisman, somehow. Proof that Enjolras is here somewhere. And Grantaire will find him – and Enjolras will _not_ be broken beyond repair when he does.

He has to call Combeferre again.

“He’s not here,” he says. His voice sounds flat and empty and he can’t find it in him to do much about it. “Just the phone. They must have known someone would try and track it.”

Combeferre doesn’t comment on this, but Grantaire knows that they’re both thinking the same thing: that this is a sure sign that the djinn know Enjolras is a hunter, that they know people will be looking for him with urgency, that they know he might be too dangerous to keep alive.

“Then we’ll just have to try something else,” Combeferre says. He sounds calm, but he cares for Enjolras like a brother, and Grantaire knows that he must be the furthest possible thing from calm. “If you can’t track Enjolras, then you’ll have to track the djinn themselves.”

“Interrogating them hasn’t proved terribly fruitful so far,” Grantaire says. He doesn’t imagine he’ll have better luck with any other djinn he finds – they’ll all be able to tell that he’ll kill them no matter what information they give him, and that isn’t exactly incentive to talk.

“You don’t need to interrogate them. You just need to find one and follow it,” Combeferre says. There are sounds in the background like he’s leafing through a book. Trust Combeferre to have a relevant book within reach of his bed. “Djinn aren’t fast feeders like vampires; they keep their victims in a coma-like state, induced by their venom, and drain them of blood over the course of a few days. Of course, it seems like these djinn are trying to lay low by not completely draining the people they take – my guess is that they feed off them for a night and then release them in the morning, and they wake up thinking they partied too hard to remember.”

“So the one that died was, what? An accident?” Grantaire asks.

“It’s possible. They’re known to be greedy creatures,” Combeferre says. “But the fact of the matter is, they must have… _somewhere_ that they take their victims. They can’t be hooking them up to blood bags in the middle of a club dance floor. There has to be somewhere that they take the people, and keep them, and feed.”

“And if I can follow a djinn back to that somewhere, I’ll find Enjolras,” Grantaire says in realisation.

“Presumably. Hopefully.” Combeferre pauses – a horrible pause. “Grantaire, we have to…I mean, realistically…” It’s not like Combeferre to struggle with words – it’s clear he doesn’t want to say it, not at all. “If they knew he was a hunter, they might have killed him outright, Grantaire.”

“No,” Grantaire says fiercely. He’d _know_ if Enjolras was dead, he’d have felt it, it would have been like the sun going out. “No, he’s not dead, he can’t be. I’d know if he was.”

He realises immediately that he’s said too much – he waits for Combeferre to ask just exactly how he’d know, but he doesn’t.

“Alright,” he says instead. “That’s…good, alright.”

“I’ll find him,” Grantaire promises.

“I don’t doubt you will,” Combeferre replies. His voice becomes oddly steely. “And furthermore, I don’t particularly care how you do it. Normally I’d advice discretion and caution and whatever else, but not this time. Do whatever it takes, no matter how ugly.”

~

The waiting is the worst part.

Under any other circumstances, twelve hours could pass with Grantaire hardly even noticing – it’s less than the blink of an eye, to something as ancient as him. But today, the time passes in an endless, agonising grind. He swears he can _feel_ every minute going by as another drop of Enjolras’s blood and life being drained away, and before long he starts to feel like he might simply go mad before nightfall.

He decides to track the djinn to their daytime sleeping place, so that he can at least be ready to track them come evening – and, perhaps more importantly, to try and determine their exact numbers. It’s almost pathetically easy. He finds himself wishing that he’d convinced Enjolras to stay in the hotel that first night – he could have claimed tiredness from the travelling and Enjolras probably would have bought it, then he could have snuck away to investigate their enemy during the night or the next day, and they would have _known_ what they were up against and they never would have split up and _none of this would have happened-_

He angrily banishes the thought from his mind. Bemoaning his own failures won’t help Enjolras now.

The djinn are holed up in an apartment very close to the resort. Even before going inside, Grantaire can tell that there must be a lot of them – to his eyes, the entire building and its surrounding area is pulsing with the trace of their strange magic. He enters the apartment, as invisible and quiet as a soft breeze, and finds it _full_ of sleeping djinn. He counts fifteen of them, asleep on ratty couches and makeshift beds, wall to wall in every room. He drifts above them and shakes his head, unable to believe how wrong even Combeferre had been about this case. It would have taken a platoon of ordinary hunters to deal with this infestation.

Of course, he could turn them all to dust in a second. Especially now, when they’re sleeping and defenceless. It would be so _easy._

But he can’t, and it makes his Grace burn with impatience inside him. He can’t do anything; the djinn have to lead him to Enjolras, and for that he needs them alive and unsuspecting. He’s already killed two of their number; he can only hope they won’t consider that reason enough to disrupt their usual feeding routine tonight.

He stays in the apartment for a long time, feeling torn. He could wake one of them up, could try and force them to reveal where they hide their victims and maybe find Enjolras that much sooner, but he might fail, _what if he failed-?_

He’s snapped out of his dilemma when his phone rings; he makes a hasty exit from the building before it can wake any of the djinn.

“I managed to get in touch with Carmen and Francesca,” Combeferre says when he answers. “They said you should meet them at the same café as yesterday.”

“What?” Grantaire frowns. “Why do I need to meet them?”

“If there are more djinn, you’re going to need more lamb’s blood, aren’t you?” Combeferre says.

Oh, right. A normal, human hunter wouldn’t be able to take on fifteen djinn with their bare hands. Come to that, a normal, human hunter wouldn’t even know that there were, in fact, fifteen djinn. Grantaire resolves to keep that information to himself.

“Unless you know of a better way to kill djinn, of course,” Combeferre says.

“No, sorry, I just wasn’t thinking,” Grantaire says tiredly. The pretence is so exhausting.

There’s a pause.

“I suppose that blade of yours would be able to kill them,” Combeferre says finally, slowly. “It could be very useful to you, in a situation like this.”

“Yes,” Grantaire agrees. He’d dearly love to have his sword in his hand when tonight comes; less messy than lamb’s blood, less effort than using his Grace directly. Not to mention that every large burst of Grace he uses runs the risk of attracting Heaven’s unwanted attention. “Too bad it’s in Paris with you.”

“Too bad,” Combeferre echoes. He sounds distracted, like he’s mulling something over very carefully. “Do you need it? Would it help?”

“It would make things easier, for sure,” Grantaire admits. “But I’ll manage without it.”

There’s another pause, lengthier this time.

“If it would help, if it would improve your chances of success…” Combeferre says at last. “Why don’t you come and get it?”

Grantaire blinks.

“I’m in Majorca, Combeferre, not around the corner from you,” he says.

“I’m aware of that,” Combeferre says patiently. “But if you know of any way, outwith _conventional_ means, of getting to my apartment and back before nightfall, I suggest you do it.”

Grantaire feels a strange coldness take a steely grip of his vessel’s insides.

“What are you saying?” he asks, fighting to keep his voice under control, to sound confused instead of suspicious.

“I’m only saying that, if you were to appear in my apartment today, I wouldn’t be overly concerned with how you got there,” Combeferre says.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Grantaire says, and it’s the truth, because Combeferre can’t possibly mean what it _sounds_ like he means.

Combeferre sighs.

“It’s hard to be more specific. I don’t know, exactly, the things that you are capable of,” he says, calm and patient. “But if you _can_ do it, then do it. I won’t have Enjolras put at added risk over something as stupid as you and I being needlessly coy with each other.”

Grantaire finds himself in the rare position of being lost for words. He stands there, gaping and silent, for some considerable time, and then he shoves his phone into his pocket, spreads his wings and flies to Paris.

He lands without ceremony in the middle of Combeferre’s living room. Combeferre, who is sitting on the sofa, starts slightly, though not enough to spill the mug of tea cradled in his hands.

“You know,” Grantaire says accusingly, looking down on this human who has apparently been playing along with his own game without him even noticing.

“Well, I didn’t know you were quite that fast,” Combeferre says. He’s looking Grantaire up and down with new interest. “I just knew that you have an impressive knack for being in the right place at the right time.”

“But you know I’m-” Grantaire cuts himself off, snaps his jaw shut.

“Not human?” Combeferre finishes for him. He’s wearing a small smile. “The possibility had occurred to me, I confess.”

“Which, for you, means you’ve known for a while.”

“Well.” Combeferre huffs out a small laugh. “I’d hoped that a hunting companion might help reduce Enjolras’s injuries and hospital visits. But to keep him as safe as you do? In the last year, he hasn’t had a single _serious_ injury. And knowing him as I do, I knew that no ordinary hunter could keep him that much out of trouble.”

Grantaire, almost without realising it, starts to slowly circle him in a wide arc, trying to understand this shift in their situation, and trying to gauge whether Combeferre is going to try anything stupid.

“You don’t seem very concerned about the fact,” Grantaire remarks. He keeps his voice flat and toneless, which probably betrays his suspicion more than it conceals it.

“Do I have reason to be?” Combeferre asks. He hasn’t been tracking Grantaire’s prowling movements – a display of trust that is as baffling as the things he’s saying – but he looks at him now.

“I would have thought so,” Grantaire says. “You know I’ve lied to you and Enjolras about being human. You know I passed all those little tests you performed on me a year ago, and so you presumably do not know what I am – but you know that I am something you don’t know how to hunt. You know that I have powers beyond human capability but you don’t have the slightest idea what they are. I would’ve thought all those things would be cause for _concern._ ” He stops his pacing and frowns in open puzzlement at Combeferre, whom he has gathered is actually not even going to try and attack him. “And yet you’ve kept quiet. You’ve let me travel alone with your best friend. Was this an experiment, Combeferre? Are you much more cold-hearted than you’ve ever let on?”

“I hope not,” Combeferre says, that impossibly calm smile still playing on his lips. “I can see that you’re much sharper than you’ve ever let on, but I knew that even before I realised you couldn’t be human.” He pauses a moment to set his mug down on the coffee table. “It’s quite simple, really. I am unconcerned because I do not consider you a threat. And I do not consider you a threat because there is no doubting your loyalty to Enjolras. You may not be human, but it’s clear that you’re on our side. Or, at least, on his side.”

Grantaire looks away, smarting with humiliation that he’s been so transparent this whole time. To Combeferre and the rest of the world, he is supposed to be Enjolras’s oafish, largely useless tagalong, not his horribly _obvious_ loyal soldier. He wonders if he’s underestimated humans and their perception all this time, or if Jehan and Combeferre are simply unfairly exceptional. At least Jehan has the excuse of being psychic.

He feels his face go slightly hot. He only hopes that Combeferre doesn’t know quite as much as Jehan. Loyalty he can deal with, but he is not prepared to discuss any of his other feelings for Enjolras at this time, and with their astute and trusted guide, no less.

“I don’t understand how you can trust me,” he says finally.

“A year ago, you promised me that you wouldn’t let any harm come to Enjolras, and up until now, you’ve kept your word,” Combeferre says, as if it is somehow that simple. “My father hated any creature that wasn’t completely human, whether they were hostile or not-”

“I _know_ ,” Grantaire cuts in gruffly. He’d been on-edge already, with Enjolras missing and off his radar, and now this has him feeling mixed up and angry and foolish. “I saw your father live and die, I saw you born, and countless other hunter-children before you.”

Combeferre blinks a few times, then clearly files that titbit of information away to be dealt with later and continues.

“ _But_ I’ve had the good fortune to know people like Jean Prouvaire, who have helped show me that one’s species is not always an indicator of one’s tendency towards evil,” he says.

Grantaire takes a moment to just shut his eyes and breathe deep. This is not how the revelation of his true nature was supposed to go.

“Speaking of Prouvaire, I assume he also knows?” Combeferre asks.

“Naturally,” Grantaire replies. “Can’t hide anything from his eyes.” A thought occurs to him suddenly. “Does Enjolras know? Have you-?”

“I’ve never discussed the matter with him,” Combeferre says. “I’d be surprised if he didn’t know, though. You two are always together. He must know by now.”

“No,” Grantaire says sharply. “If he knew, he’d have done something. You think he’d travel – eat, sleep, hunt – with a monster? Enjolras?”

Combeferre just regards him silently with raised eyebrows.

Grantaire shakes his head and crosses the room to where he knows Combeferre’s safe is hidden behind a false radiator. He lifts the radiator off the wall, reaches into the exposed opening for the safe’s handle, and promptly tears it and the entire safe door off with as much effort as a human tearing off a piece of cotton candy. He drops the mangled door to the ground and takes his blade from the safe, all while Combeferre watches, with his eyebrows raised noticeably higher now.

“What exactly are you?” Combeferre asks him. “Can you tell me that?”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out by yourself,” Grantaire snipes quite unnecessarily before flying back to Majorca.

~

He receives a text from Combeferre shortly after landing back on the island, but all it says is that he should go ahead with his scheduled meeting with Carmen and Francesca, even though he is unlikely to actually need the lamb’s blood they’ll be supplying. Grantaire understands. Combeferre might be inexplicably accepting of having a monster in his ranks, but it wouldn’t do to let the hunting community at large become suspicious. A normal human hunter would require a lot of lamb’s blood to take out a legion of djinn, and so he will go and take the lamb’s blood.

The two ladies are a lot less jovial than they had been the day before. They nod sombrely to him as he joins them at their table, and Carmen pushes a glass towards him. It does not contain lemonade, and for that he is grateful, and he nods in thanks and downs it. They pass him another backpack, too.

“I hope you find your boy,” Carmen says, patting him on the arm.

“If you need any help, just give Combeferre the word to call us in,” Francesca says, and it should seem like a joke, coming from a white-haired grandmotherly figure like her, but there is real steel in her voice and in her eyes. “We’re not completely useless just yet. And God knows I’d rather go out taking down a djinn instead of just waiting to get so old that I just keel over one day.”

“Dear, _please_ ,” Carmen says anxiously, taking her hand and squeezing.

“Thank you, both of you,” Grantaire says before taking his leave. He doesn’t want to be around them, or any human, for too long right now, and not just because he can think of nothing besides the one human he cares about more than anything. He also isn’t sure exactly how well he can pass for human himself right now. This horrible situation has him feeling more distinctly angel-like than he has in a long, long time – angry and vengeful and more than ready to rain divine punishment down on every djinn in existence. He wouldn’t be surprised if tonight was the night he finally uses enough Grace to get himself noticed (and probably immolated) by Heaven. He is surprised by how little the thought bothers him. If he finds Enjolras alive first, he’d probably consider it a fair price to pay.

He spends the whole day agitated and impatient, but when nightfall finally comes, his agitation has faded away and been replaced by a glossy black, dangerous calm. He leaves the hotel again and returns to the bustle of the streets and moves between the happy partygoers like a shark through shoals of fish too small for him to bother with. He scans with all his senses for any hint of blue-glowing djinn-magic, and he finds the first djinn much faster than he had the night before. This one appears male, handsome and tattooed, and it is in the process of poisoning not one but two young human men. Grantaire quirks an eyebrow. Greedy.

He does not swoop in and attack as he did the previous night – instead, he takes a seat at a nearby table and observes the proceedings. The djinn is clearly somewhat on edge, probably having noticed two of its brethren missing, and keeps sending sharp glances over its shoulder in between charming its victims, but Grantaire’s Grace is tucked away behind a human face and a wall of fake indifference, and it does not see him. Grantaire watches it with the same sort of disdain a tiger might feel watching a domestic cat toy with a mouse. _So you think you’re the scariest predator on this island tonight? Hah. You’ll see._

He knows that there are two different types of djinn; the kind that like fear, and the kind that like joy. Apparently human blood tastes different depending on the hormones being released into it for each emotion, and djinn are sort of like gruesome connoisseurs of human blood. Judging by the glazed-eyed, vacant smiles of the two young men currently under the djinn's thrall, Grantaire suspects that the djinn here are of the subspecies that prefers the sweeter taste of human happiness. He wonders if that's any better for their victims; if it's any better for Enjolras. If they've poisoned him, he'll be trapped in an illusion that is, at least, happy. But then, maybe that's even crueler than the alternative.

He doesn't have much time to ponder it; soon the djinn is on the move, its two victims following along like sleepy, obedient children. Grantaire trails them at a careful distance, trying to contain his impatience.

He's not sure where he expects the djinn to lead them. Some abandoned warehouse, maybe. That's the sort of place you imagine monsters taking their victims, right? In any case, he's a little puzzled when the djinn takes the two humans into what appears to be just another bar further along the street. Perhaps this is just another stop along the way, maybe this djinn is positively _famished_ and just two full-grown humans isn't enough for him, but Grantaire opts not to take any chances. He cloaks himself entirely before following them inside.

The bar, at first glance, looks just like any other bar. It's not one that Grantaire visited last night; it's on what would have been Enjolras's side of the street. He looks around him, at the laughing patrons and mismatched tables and extremely retro jukebox, and he assumes that this is another hunting spot.

He follows the djinn, who has gone straight up to the bar with the two humans in tow, as if to order a drink. There's only one person behind the bar and, upon turning his attention to them, Grantaire notices something _strange_ about them, though he can't immediately identify it. He frowns, pondering a moment, before he realises: they have the same slightly dreamy look to them as the djinn's victims and, when he looks more closely, he can see that yes, the same faint, blue-glowing taint of magic is upon them. They've been poisoned, but to a much lesser degree – not enough to hinder their functionality or to be terribly obvious, but it's there. He wonders why, and when it happened. Perhaps the djinn go around periodically infecting as many bar staff as they can, to prevent them from noticing their patrons being spirited away-?

The reason suddenly becomes glaringly apparent when the djinn, still leading its two victims, strolls casually behind the bar and goes through a door without earning even a glance from the smiling employee. Grantaire narrows his eyes. It seems they'd been poisoned just enough to stop them from noticing something like _that._

He follows quickly, still cloaked and unseen. The djinn leads its humans, who are giggling and stumbling as they go, along a short passageway and then through another door, which reveals a set of stairs, leading down into darkness. Grantaire is sure any human in their right mind would think it was just about the creepiest thing they'd ever seen and turn tail right there and then, but these humans are far from being in their right mind, and they go down the stairs willingly when the djinn gestures for them to do so.

The djinn's eyes glow bright blue in the darkness, but Grantaire doesn't need their light to see what's down here. In the space left between shelves and bottles and kegs – because this is a storage basement, of course it is – there are other humans already here; he counts seven of them, slumped in chairs or laid out on tables, each with a needle jammed in their arm, sluggishly draining blood into a bag. They are all deeply poisoned and, as a result, deeply unconscious.

Grantaire knows he should be doing something – namely, killing the djinn, releasing these people and checking if Enjolras is among them – but for a moment he can only stand and stare, disoriented. Because his eyes tell him, without a doubt, that there are seven unconscious humans in this room, the closest only a few feet away from him – and yet, he can't feel them there at all, can't _sense_ them, can't see the barest flicker of a human soul among them. If his eyes were closed, he'd think with certainty that he was alone here with only the djinn and the two humans it brought. He doesn't understand.

The djinn opens a box on a nearby table and takes out two new blood bags with tubes and needles attached, and that snaps Grantaire into action. He doesn't bother with any pomp and circumstance; just slides deftly out of hiding and grabs the djinn by the throat and pins it to the nearest wall. It lets out a frightened shriek that is swiftly cut off by the pressure on its windpipe.

“So this is your game?” Grantaire ponders aloud. “You poison the staff so that they don't notice a thing, then you bring people down here, drain them halfway dry and then, what? Turn them loose with a head full of hallucinations and what they'll think is just the worst hangover of all time?”

“Who are you?” the djinn splutters in his grip. “What are you?”

“I'm just a guy you probably shouldn't have pissed off,” Grantaire says. “See, one of you took my friend.”

“Your friend? We've never taken anyone like you,” the thing wheezes. “Just humans, only humans.”

“He is human,” Grantaire says. “Not exactly your average human, to be sure, but human nonetheless.”

The djinn's blue-glowing eyes suddenly widen in realisation.

“The hunter,” it says then, seeming to realise its mistake, snaps its mouth shut.

“Where is he?” Grantaire asks, drawing his sword. “If you tell me, I might consider not killing you.”

“Y-yeah, yeah, we can make a deal?” the djinn says, nodding furiously. “I take you to him, I give him to you, and you let me go?”

“Like I said,” Grantaire says. “I'll consider it.”

The djinn whines pitifully. Grantaire lets go of its throat and it crumples to the ground.

“It was you, wasn't it?” it croaks. “Two of us didn't come back last night. You killed them.”

“They were uncooperative. I'm hoping you won't make the same mistake.” Grantaire stands over one of the unconscious humans and frowns down at her. “Why can't I sense these humans? Why can't I feel them here?”

“Because they're not here,” the djinn says with a weak chuckle. “They're...elsewhere.”

“Where?”

“Wherever they want to be.” The djinn shrugs. “Wherever their minds take them.”

Grantaire scowls at it as he understands what it means. A djinn's poison isn't just some chemical, it's _magic,_ and so its victims aren't just put to sleep – they are trapped somewhere between dream and illusion and alternate reality, and they really are nowhere in this world while their body lies in enchanted slumber. Enjolras is farther from him right now than it should be possible for him to be.

“Get up,” Grantaire snaps at the djinn. “We're going, _now._ And you're going to take me to my friend or I'll burn you from the inside out.”

The djinn gives a panicked whimper and scrambles unsteadily to its feet. It casts a brief glance towards its two newest victims, who are standing nearby looking hazily contented.

“No, you can't have a snack first, either,” Grantaire says, giving it a shove out the door. “I'd say your days of harvesting blood on this island are done.”

“Why? These other humans aren't your friends, right?” the djinn says miserably. “Why not just take your hunter and leave us alone?”

“You killed a person, you blood-sucking parasite,” Grantaire says.

“Only _one_ ,” it whines. “You're not even one of them, why do you care?”

Grantaire just gives it another shove when they get to the top of the stairs, propelling it back out into the bar. Before they leave, he pauses and taps the person working behind the bar on the arm, sending a pulse of Grace into them to evaporate the poison in their body. They give a startled blink, as if the world just rearranged itself slightly before their eyes.

“There are some people in your basement,” Grantaire tells them. “They need help. You should do something about that.”

“What? Who are you?” they start to ask but Grantaire is already halfway out the door with the djinn in tow.

The djinn leads him along the street, watching him fearfully from the corner of its eye all the while. Grantaire couldn't care less about its fear of him, unless it causes its heart to give out from terror before it can take him to Enjolras.

At last they reach yet another bar, the very last one on the street, and Grantaire struggles not to explode with fury and frustration right there and then. Because clearly he should have been scarier before, because the djinn is frightened but _clearly_ not frightened enough to do as it was told – because he can already tell that it is leading him into an ambush. He can sense a group of djinn inside the building, five or six of them, and in a bitter sort of way he's looking forward to showing them that even in great numbers they are no match for a thing like him.

“Your human, he's in here,” the djinn says, gesturing for him to enter. Grantaire keeps his face neutral and goes inside. They go through the same routine of bypassing the poisoned bar workers and descending some stairs. Once again, they go through the door to the storage cellar.

There are indeed more humans here, but a quick glance confirms to Grantaire that Enjolras is not among them. The six djinn are in the grisly process of feeding, some from the filled blood bags, others directly from the source. They freeze and stare when he enters.

“Kill him!” the one that led him here howls from behind him. “He killed the others, it was him, get him, _kill him!_ ”

The djinn react instantaneously, abandoning their meals and hurling themselves at Grantaire in a blue-glowing frenzy of ugly magic and rage. Grantaire throws out one hand and vaporises one on the spot with a rush of Grace; his blade drops neatly into his other hand from his sleeve and he just as quickly stabs a second djinn clean through the chest. It gurgles and drools blood for a moment before dying, its face registering only dumb surprise. Its weight hanging from his blade is nothing to Grantaire, and he leaves it dangling there on the end on his outstretched arm and looks pointedly at its remaining kin. They immediately fall back, their glowing eyes wide with terror.

The one that led him here tries to run back out the door. Grantaire seizes it with his free hand. He finally lets the corpse drop to the floor and proceeds to wipe off his blade on the captured djinn's shirt.

“You couldn't just have taken me to him, could you?” he says, inspecting the blade for any remaining blood and ignoring the hysterical shaking of the djinn in his grasp. “This all could have been so _easy._ So painless. I really might have let you live, you know. Might have just relocated you and your cohorts to some remote mountain to feed on goat blood, out of everyone else's way. But now I guess it's going to have to be Plan B. Just so you know, I hate Plan B. And I suspect you're not going to like it much, either.”

He shoves the djinn towards its fellows where they are cowering against the far wall.

“So,” he says grimly, “who's first?”

~

A few hours later, Grantaire is really starting to run out of patience. Two more djinn lie dead, and they took the secret of Enjolras's location with them to their deaths. The latest subject of his interrogation is proving equally tight-lipped – in terms of giving him information, that is. Its screams are so loud and piercing that Grantaire is frankly amazed it hasn't managed to rouse any of the unconscious humans, or bring someone running from upstairs.

“You're all really making this much harder than it has to be,” Grantaire remarks. “Just _tell me where he is,_ and this'll be over.”

“And you'll kill us anyway, you mean,” the djinn on the floor in front of him snarls. Grantaire sighs.

“Sometimes it's not about whether you live or die,” he says, idly tracing the tip of his blade around the djinn's left eye. “Sometimes it's just about whether you die quickly, or over the course of many hours, in unimaginable pain.” He takes one of the djinn's hands. “Sometimes it's about how many fingers you have to lose before you're allowed to die.”

The djinn makes a wretched noise in the back of its throat, but says nothing.

Grantaire sighs again and brings his blade down. The screaming starts anew.

He never took to torture the way some of his siblings did; he never came to enjoy it, or see it as some kind of exquisite art in need of perfecting. To him, it's just an ugly, messy and horrible means to an end. That doesn't mean, however, that he isn't good at it.

“Fuck you, and fuck your human,” the djinn hisses out between bloody teeth. “None of us will give him to you, he'll die alone before you'll ever find him-”

“And you'll all die,” Grantaire says plainly. “Is assuring the death of one human really worth so much to you?”

“Like I said,” the djinn says, “you'll kill us anyway. You were never going to spare us. We can all see that. You're more of a monster than any of us could ever be.”

Patience officially spent, Grantaire raises his blade, ready to stab this thing in the throat to shut it up and move onto the next one-

There's a flash of gold.

Not in this room, not anywhere in front of his human eyes but...somewhere. His wider-ranging, more powerful senses seize upon it like a lifeline. For a long, long moment there is nothing, and he starts to think he imagined it, that he's so desperate that he's just plain going out of his mind, but then it flickers again. A weak spark of the most unmistakeable gold.

_Enjolras._

Transfixed, Grantaire utilises every last bit of his power and concentration to focus in on that burgeoning spark, to prove to himself that it's _real,_ that he can feel Enjolras's soul again, that he's really _out there_ and he can _go to him_.

He flies to it – in the instant before he goes, he waves his hand, almost as an afterthought, to destroy the remaining djinn.

He finds himself outside a building that looks like it was once a store of some kind but is now boarded up and derelict. However, he can see faint rays of light peeking out from between the boards on the windows, and when he tries the door it opens easily.

Another djinn is sitting on a folding chair inside, looking bored and doing something on a cell phone. Grantaire barely spares it a glance, disposing of it with another flick of his arm when he passes it in pursuit of that flickering gold light, his guiding star.

It leads him to a door, which he practically demolishes in his haste to open it. The open doorway reveals another set of stairs going downwards; another basement, but darker and danker than any other he's seen so far tonight. He flies to the bottom of the stairs because walking is just too _slow_ when he's this close-

There's a metal trolley that looks like it might have been stolen from a hospital in the middle of the dark room, and lying motionless on it-

“ _Enjolras!_ ”

The name springs from his throat without even a thought, both a victory cry and a scream of fear, because he's _here,_ Enjolras is here, but is he okay, is Grantaire too late? He dashes to his side, stares down at him, grabs his shoulders just to prove to himself that he's _solid_ and _real._

“Enjolras,” he says again, softer this time, awed and reverent. Enjolras is breathing, and at least partly awake – _you're_ _ **awake,**_ _you woke yourself up, you pulled yourself out of whatever fucked up illusion they trapped you in and I have no idea how you did it but you_ _ **did,**_ _you clever human, you precious, amazing human._ Grantaire cradles his face in both hands, smooths his thumbs gently over his ashen cheeks. Enjolras's eyes are half-open and looking at him, but they're unfocused and disoriented.

“Hey, hey, can you hear me?” Grantaire asks him. He feels utterly overwhelmed just to see him, wants to fall to his knees and weep with relief, but that really wouldn't be helpful right now. He needs to keep it together.

Enjolras blinks slowly, with great effort, once and then twice. His eyes manage to focus slightly.

“Are you real?” he asks. It makes Grantaire's heart ache, and not only because Enjolras must be confused and scared right now, but because his voice is a sandpapery croak, and Enjolras should never sound like that, and Grantaire might never forgive himself for letting this happen.

“Yeah, yes, of course I’m real, I’m here, you’re safe.” Grantaire assures him. He runs his hands soothingly over Enjolras's hair. “I’m here, I found you.” _I found you, because you made yourself findable, you wonderful thing, you unbelievably fantastic boy._

He isn't sure how he expected Enjolras to react to the knowledge that he is found and saved, but it startles and wounds him when Enjolras's eyes brim with tears. A quiet sob escapes his lips, and _oh, my darling, how could I let this happen to you, I'm so sorry._

“Sshh, it's okay, it's okay, I've got you,” Grantaire murmurs. Enjolras's wrists are handcuffed to the trolley, and Grantaire doesn't hesitate to snap the cuffs with his bare hands, because he doesn't think Enjolras is lucid enough to notice. There is a needle in his arm, too, slowly draining his blood into a bag, and it makes Grantaire want to burn this whole town to the ground, but he makes sure that he is gentle when he removes it.

He notices restraints around Enjolras's legs, too, and he supposes Enjolras must have put up one hell of a fight for the djinn to think they needed to tie him down even when they had him pumped full of poison. He gets rid of those restraints too, then grips Enjolras by the shoulders again.

“Can you sit up?” he asks, but Enjolras doesn't seem to hear him. His movements are sluggish and clumsy, not like him at all, but he raises his freed arms and reaches for Grantaire pleadingly. Grantaire bends lower over him, trying to help, and Enjolras's arms settle around his neck.

“You found me,” Enjolras says in that hoarse voice that is so unlike him. His eyes are still wet and now full of wonder. “You came for me.”

“Of course I came for you, you _idiot._ ” Grantaire is by turns offended and horrified that him coming for Enjolras had ever been in any doubt; unthinkingly, he drags Enjolras up into a tight embrace, wishing so much that he could just _pour_ his thoughts and feelings straight from his body into Enjolras's, let him know exactly how much he means to him. He impulsively presses a kiss to Enjolras's forehead, unable to help himself, wanting to do everything in his power to prove to Enjolras that he is safe and adored.

“I'm always going to come for you, always,” Grantaire promises him, holding him close, rocking them both slightly.

Enjolras doesn't reply, but he buries his face in the crook of Grantaire's neck and holds on tight.

“I think...” Enjolras says slowly at length, every word sounding like a real struggle for his tongue to contend with. “I think I need to sleep.”

“Sleep, then,” Grantaire tells him. He shifts them slightly, gets one arm under Enjolras's knees and one wrapped around his shoulders and lifts him up, holds him close to his chest. “This'll all be over when you wake up, I promise.”

Enjolras makes a tired noise of assent, and within moments he is asleep in Grantaire's arms – real sleep this time, not cursed, poisonous djinn-sleep. Grantaire gazes at him a moment, still unable to fully believe that the nightmare is over for both of them, before flying them back to their hotel room.

He lays Enjolras on his bed as gently as he can and pulls the sheets over him. He sends a very brief text to Combeferre – ' _I've got him' –_ and his phone almost immediately starts buzzing with phone calls and text messages, no doubt demanding clarification and more details, but he puts it on silent and ignores it for now. All that really matters is that Enjolras is alive and safe; Combeferre can wait until tomorrow to hear the rest. The whole world can wait until tomorrow, in fact – there are still djinn on this island, and people lying unconscious in basements in need of rescuing, but the apocalypse itself couldn't drag Grantaire from Enjolras's side right now.

There's dried blood on Enjolras's forehead and his knuckles, further testament to the trouble he must have given the djinn when they took him. Grantaire heals the injuries without a thought; Enjolras has been through _enough,_ and he'll probably be aching all over for the next few days, which should hopefully be enough to distract him from the absence of a few injuries. He fetches a cloth from the bathroom and spends some time carefully cleaning away the blood left behind on Enjolras's skin; wipes and dabs gently, reverently, until all traces of it are gone. He spends what even he admits is an absurdly long time on his left hand, holding it and smoothing the cloth over it long after it is clean. He supposes he should probably admit to himself that he just wants to hold onto Enjolras's hand, wants to hold onto some part of him as a continuing reminder that he is _here_ and _alive._ He hopes Enjolras wouldn't mind.

He starts to fret a little as he sits there in the dark with only the sound of Enjolras's breathing to break the silence, because he knows that when Enjolras wakes up he's going to need to eat and drink after almost a full twenty-four hours of being slowly drained dry, and he should really go and get him something but he doesn't want to leave him, not even for a second, because what if he wakes up and finds himself alone? He'd be confused and maybe scared and he's still got djinn venom coursing through his veins so he's unlikely to even be entirely in his right mind-

Grantaire looks unhappily at the blue glow of the poison lazily circulating Enjolras's body. He wants nothing more than to just get rid of it, it would be so _easy,_ but Enjolras must know what happened to him, and he knows how djinn operate, and he almost definitely knows that if one has held you hostage and kept you in a state of out-of-body delirium, the poison isn't going to just vanish from your system the moment you regain consciousness. Sometimes Grantaire wishes Enjolras was just a little less thorough in his research. Then he might be able to get away with meddling slightly more.

He's just debating whether he can at least lower the _concentration_ of poison in Enjolras's blood, when out of nowhere Enjolras springs awake – just all in one go, he shoots into a sitting position with a gasping breath like a drowning man. His eyes are wild and frightened and Grantaire quickly catches him by the shoulders.

“Hey, woah, you're okay,” he says. “Were you dreaming? It's alright, you're safe. We're back at the hotel.”

Enjolras stares at him, still breathing hard like he just ran a mile.

“Are you real?” he asks again. It hurts Grantaire to his core.

“Yeah, I'm real, Enjolras,” he says, giving his shoulders a reassuring squeeze. “Whatever illusion the djinn had you trapped in, it's over now.”

Enjolras looks around him doubtfully, his fingers clenching the bedsheets anxiously.

“I promise this is real,” Grantaire tells him.

“But I've seen this all before,” Enjolras says, shaking his head. “I already know all this, so it could be fake. I want- I need you to be real, but-”

“How can I prove it to you?” Grantaire asks. He doesn't understand what Enjolras is saying, exactly, but he can tell that he's distressed and that's what he needs to fix.

“Show me something new,” Enjolras says. “Something I don't know already.”

Grantaire thinks about this.

“Alright,” he says finally. “Will you be okay if I go out for a minute? You lost a lot of blood, so you need to eat and drink. I'll get food and I'll bring back something you haven't seen before, okay?”

Enjolras regards him for a long moment before nodding cautiously. Grantaire shoots him a reassuring smile, and switches on a lamp before leaving.

He moves as quickly as he can to a nearby twenty-four hour store, keeping close tabs on Enjolras's soul the entire time. He'd rather not have him out of his sight at all, but this is the next best thing. When he returns to the hotel room with a large bottle of water, a bunch of bananas and a Spanish newspaper, Enjolras is sitting with his knees tucked to his chest and his hands over his eyes, shivering. Grantaire hurries to his side.

“Are you seeing things?” he asks. “You still have djinn venom in your system, it'll make you hallucinate a while.”

“I just want them to go away,” Enjolras says. There are tears trickling out from behind his hands, and Grantaire is at a loss; he's never seen Enjolras helpless and afraid, he doesn't know how to _help._

“Look,” he says, easing one of Enjolras's hands away from his face and putting the newspaper into it. “It's today's paper. It's new. Does this help?”

Enjolras unfolds the paper with trembling fingers and stares at it for a long time, clearly trying to translate the words from Spanish to French in his exhausted and overloaded mind, trying to see if it's enough to prove the realness of his surroundings. Eventually a low sob of frustration escapes him and he throws it to one side.

“Enjolras...” Grantaire says softly, reaching for him uncertainly – and then Enjolras is throwing himself at him, hugging him tightly around the neck and hiding his face in his shoulder.

“Please, please, just be real,” he's saying desperately. “I need you to be real, please.”

“I promise I am,” Grantaire says. He puts his arms around him, but it's tentative, because they don't _hug,_ they never have, and it feels like it might be wrong to start when Enjolras is so obviously not himself. Grantaire has the excuse of _overwhelming emotions_ for earlier's embrace, but he feels like he should be a little more in control now. But when Enjolras is so needfully seeking comfort from him, he's helpless to do anything but provide.

“You should try to sleep,” Grantaire tells him. “You'll feel better in the morning.”

“If I sleep I'll dream. It'll be like I'm back there.” Enjolras shakes his head frantically.

“At least lie down,” Grantaire urges. “You need to rest.”

“Stay with me, stay with me,” Enjolras pleads.

That's how they end up lying side by side on Enjolras's bed, Enjolras still clinging to Grantaire with a grip that will not be denied. And if that's what Enjolras needs to do right now, Grantaire will let him; he can apologise if Enjolras is embarrassed or indignant about it in the morning.

“I'm sorry, Grantaire, I'm so sorry,” Enjolras is saying over and over, sounding completely wretched.

“It wasn't your fault,” Grantaire says placatingly. “I should never have let you go off on your own, I should have insisted we stick together-”

“No, not _that_ ,” Enjolras says. His fingers dig painfully into Grantaire's skin for a moment.

“Then what?”

“In the dream, the fake world, I...” Enjolras trails off as a fresh torrent of tears floods down his face. He shakes his head again, looking ashamed and miserable.

“None of that was real. You don't need to worry about it,” Grantaire says.

“But I _made_ it, it came from _me,_ and I...you...”

He falls silent again. Grantaire brings a hand up to Enjolras's head and starts smoothing it repetitively over his hair – each time his hand makes contact, he uses his Grace to get rid of a tiny amount of the venom in his blood. Just enough to slightly speed up the natural process.

“Was I there?” he asks cautiously, more to distract Enjolras from his ministrations than anything else. Enjolras nods.

“I'm sorry,” he says again. “I shouldn't have wished for it. It was wrong of me. Or maybe I couldn't help wishing for it, but I shouldn't have liked it. You can't just _wish_ for that, it isn't _fair_ , and I'm so sorry. You don't have to forgive me.”

“I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about,” Grantaire admits. “How about we talk about it in the morning, when you're feeling better?”

“I'm just so sorry,” Enjolras mumbles. He sounds exhausted.

“Go to sleep,” Grantaire says softly. “Don't be scared of dreaming. You'll be fine.”

Enjolras sniffles but manages something that's almost a smile.

“I'll be fine as long as you stay,” he says.

“Okay,” Grantaire agrees.

Enjolras eventually drifts off into a deep sleep, still holding onto Grantaire like his life depends on it. Grantaire keeps petting his hair until the poison is all gone, and then he lies quietly and watches over him as the sun slowly rises outside the windows.

~

Enjolras wakes up at almost noon the next day. By this time, Grantaire has been sure to disentangle himself from his sleeping embrace and is sitting on his own bed, watching him carefully.

Enjolras sits up, rubbing at his eyes and blinking blearily. His gaze finds Grantaire, who tries to brace himself for more fear, more distrust of reality, but he just smiles, albeit tiredly.

“Grantaire,” he says, sounding pleased and relieved. He goes to stand up but his legs wobble dangerously and Grantaire darts forward to steady him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Thanks,” Enjolras says with a weak laugh.

“How are you feeling?” Grantaire asks him. Enjolras takes a few moments to answer, apparently taking stock of his body as it returns to full wakefulness.

“Mm, like I have the world's worst hangover,” he says finally, pressing his fingers to his temple with a wince. “But better than I was last night, at least.”

“Good.” Grantaire nods. “You should eat something. And you should definitely drink some water. No coffee for you until you're rehydrated, I'm afraid.”

“Water sounds amazing,” Enjolras admits, still massaging his temple. He manages to walk more or less steadily to the chest of drawers where the bottle of water and bananas from last night are. “Ugh, and a shower.”

“You should maybe call Combeferre first,” Grantaire says. “He knows I found you, but he'll want to hear from you himself.”

“Oh no, you had to call Combeferre.” Enjolras looks aghast. “How long was I...?”

“About twenty-four hours.” Grantaire tries to state it factually, like it wasn't possibly the worst twenty-four hours of his millennia-spanning existence. “Oh, and the djinn broke your phone. Here, use mine.”

“The djinn,” Enjolras repeats slowly as he takes the phone. His eyes widen suddenly. “Ah, I remember, Grantaire, there's more than one-”

“Trust me, I realised,” Grantaire says grimly, holding up a hand. “Don't worry, it's taken care of.”

Not strictly true – he still has a few loose ends to tie up, but he'll do that now.

“I'll go get you something for the headache,” he says, and he leaves, in large part to give Enjolras some time to himself, which he probably sorely needs after everything that's happened.

When he returns to their room a while later with a box of paracetamol, the island is officially purged of djinn and, hopefully, all their victims have been found. While he was gone, Enjolras appears to have showered and changed into clean clothes. He's pale and a little bruised in places, but his soul is strong and vibrant and untainted by poison. He's standing out on the balcony, finishing off a banana; he turns and comes back inside when he hears Grantaire return.

“Combeferre sounded exhausted,” Enjolras says, shaking his head ruefully. “I'm so sorry. The two of you must have been so worried.”

“Don't apologise,” Grantaire says. “It wasn't your fault; sometimes the monster just gets the better of you. I'm- We're just glad you're alright.”

“At least let me apologise for the way I was acting last night,” Enjolras says. He lowers his eyes and his soul pulses a warm, embarrassed rose colour. Grantaire sighs.

“I thought maybe you wouldn't remember much about it,” he says.

“I'm a little hazy on which parts really happened and which parts were fever dreams,” Enjolras says. “I remember you finding me. I don't remember how I got back here.”

“I had to carry you to a cab,” Grantaire lies. Enjolras snorts faintly.

“How dignified,” he remarks. “I suppose the driver thought I'd drank myself into a stupor?”

“I'm sure every taxi driver on this island has seen worse,” Grantaire consoles him. Enjolras laughs softly before sobering again.

“I remember being back here, though,” he says. “Crying like an idiot, clinging onto you like a _child_ -”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire interrupts. “You were _scared_. You're allowed to be scared, you know. Especially when some monster has messed with your head. I can only imagine how scary it all seemed.”

“I'm just sorry if I made you uncomfortable, that's all.” Enjolras's words are coming out faster and faster, a sure testament to his embarrassment and nervousness. “I know that I don't usually do emotional outbursts or- or _hugging,_ so...”

“Well, maybe you should,” Grantaire says with a shrug. “You're human, remember. Those things are good for you, I hear.”

Enjolras peeks up at him from behind his eyelashes and tousled hair.

“It didn't bother you?” he asks.

Grantaire heaves an almighty sigh, crosses the room and gathers Enjolras firmly into his arms.

“No, it didn't bother me,” he says.

He is about to let go, considering his point made, but Enjolras returns the embrace after a moment, shyly, and holds on.

“Thank you. For coming to get me. For saving me,” Enjolras says quietly against his neck.

_Thank you for helping me find you,_ _thank you for coming back to me,_ Grantaire wants to say, but he can't, so he just squeezes him a little tighter.

“I remember trying to apologise to you last night, too,” Enjolras goes on. “I don't think I made myself terribly clear.”

“There's nothing you need to apologise for,” Grantaire tells him.

“No, listen, please.” Enjolras steps out of their embrace, though only barely – there is hardly room for breath between them as he looks into Grantaire's eyes with an expression that is both determined and extremely repentant. “I think I at least need to tell you what I wished for. The djinn trapped me in that world, but I built it myself.”

“Alright, then,” Grantaire says. “Tell me.”

Even with permission, Enjolras hesitates. He nibbles his lower lip anxiously.

“We weren't hunters,” he says finally. “In that world.”

“At least your subconscious has some sense,” Grantaire says with a small smile that Enjolras tries and fails to return.

“We were civilians,” he goes on haltingly. “We had normal lives. We were safe, and we were happy, I think.”

“I don't see what part of this you need to apologise for,” Grantaire comments, amused. He sees Enjolras's cheeks burn but he soldiers on.

“We lived together in a nice flat in Paris,” he says. “With a balcony and a view and- and a big bedroom. Just one. And a bed that we shared together.”

Grantaire freezes, stares at him. Wonders if maybe djinn venom _does_ affect angels after all.

“You understand what I'm saying, right?” Enjolras says. “The djinn looked into my mind and that was what I wanted most of all. Just me, and you, and...and-”

“You mean that you...I mean, we...?” Grantaire feels like his thoughts are running through thick mud and that he's about five miles behind Enjolras and the point he's trying to make.

“So I'm sorry, because I know you can't just _wish_ for another person like that, it's not right, it's not fair,” Enjolras is saying wretchedly. “And I knew I must have wished for it, I could still remember the way things really are, but even then I just, for a while...” He trails off, shakes his head helplessly. “I wanted it, so I didn't try to fix it at first. And I'm sorry. I thought you should know. I thought you should know everything because- because that's fair, right? You should know what I did, so you can decide what you want to do about it. And you should know how I feel, so...so that you can decide what you want to do about that too, I suppose.”

He shuts his mouth and it looks like a visible effort to stop the flow of apologetic babble. He squeezes his eyes shut too, as if anticipating a blow. His soul, normally so strong and steady, is flickering and fluttering like a fretful bird. Grantaire doesn’t think he’s ever seen him nervous like this before. He never expected to see it on his account.

“I...” Grantaire starts before realising he has no idea what the rest of the sentence should be. He shakes his head and tries again. “Enjolras. I don't...I don't _deserve_ that, you can't- I mean, maybe it was just the djinn messing with you?”

“I know I'm not the most adept at understanding my own feelings in this area, but it's a little hard to be unsure of them after seeing them play out in a dream-world,” Enjolras says with a slightly hysterical laugh. “I'm not asking you to return them, I just...like I said, I thought you should know.”

“It's not that I don't _return them-_ ” Grantaire blurts out quite without thinking, and then freezes again because _no, you idiot, you can't tell him that, he can't know that you'd raze whole worlds to the ground with only a word from him, that he is the most precious thing in all of creation to you, because you_ _ **shouldn't feel that way,**_ _you_ _ **monster-**_

Enjolras looks at him curiously, thoughtfully. Grantaire’s mouth feels horribly dry. He swallows hard.

“I think- I think I remember that when you found me, last night...” Enjolras says slowly in cautious, almost hushed tones. “You...kissed me. Just here.” He touches his own forehead on the spot where Grantaire had unthinkingly pressed his lips in that moment of terror and relief. “Did you?”

“...Yeah,” Grantaire manages to reply, his voice barely more than a whisper of breath. Enjolras nods, considering.

“Would it- would it be okay if I kissed you, now?” he asks finally.

Grantaire doesn’t give him an answer, not out loud, but his gaze is drawn from Enjolras’s eyes down to his mouth as if dragged by a magnet. And that seems to be answer enough because Enjolras’s soul takes on a determined shine, and he leans in and-

It’s the lightest press of lips, soft and warm and slow. It’s nervous and hopeful and it lingers like a question waiting for an answer.

_Oh, no._

Grantaire knows that it is wrong for him to have this, that it is the worst sort of betrayal. But he is greedy and love-starved and he has _wanted_ for so long, and instead of pulling away he brings his hands up to cradle Enjolras’s face, to urge him closer, and kisses him back with what feels like terrible finality.

Enjolras’s golden soul seems to grow. It blazes a sudden, brilliant white – love and joy so pure that it simply becomes _light –_ and Grantaire closes his eyes because he is so full of sin that he’s sure it will burn him. He tilts his head and suddenly they’re even closer; their lips slot together and it’s clumsy but they _fit_ so perfectly and that seems cruel and utterly unfair. It makes it seem like they could have this; like it’s right and meant to be and could be _allowed._

Grantaire’s heart breaks when he feels Enjolras smile against his mouth.

He forces himself to break away, though he can’t bring himself to go very far. Enjolras’s hands are tangled in his hair, and their faces are so close that Grantaire almost can’t see the giddy, radiant smile lighting up Enjolras’s face, making his eyes gleam. But he can see it, and _God,_ he loves him so completely that it’s like a perfect ache in his whole being; a thrum at the very core of his Grace, which was never meant to feel.

He watches as Enjolras’s smile fades and grey clouds of doubt begin to bloom in his glorious soul, because Enjolras can see his stricken expression and he doesn’t understand – _can’t_ understand, because Grantaire is a liar and has deceived him completely and has allowed _love_ to be built on that lie, and it’s so unforgivable that he wants to be sick.

“Grantaire?” Enjolras says finally. He licks his lips nervously, and Grantaire wants so badly to kiss him again, just one more time, and he is already irredeemable so he does. Softly, so softly. When he pulls away again, his eyes are wet, and Enjolras’s soul erupts with icy-blue dread.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. Grantaire tries to smile at him. Enjolras’s hands slide out of his hair and grip his shoulders instead, as if to steady him.

“Enjolras.” His voice is a watery croak.

“Grantaire?”

“There are a lot of things I should tell you.”

Enjolras tilts his head slightly, frowns. Confused, concerned. Grantaire can’t bear it.

“But I think the only thing I really want you to know is that I love you?”

Enjolras blinks and then he smiles again. That white light burns anew and he opens his mouth to reply but Grantaire can’t let him say that, he _can’t._ He presses a finger to Enjolras’s lips to stop him.

“I love you,” he says again. “And that’s the truth. And...” He searches desperately for something meaningful to say, something better than any hollow apology he could offer. “And I’ll watch over you.”

Enjolras’s confusion is swiftly turning to fear now, but before he can say anything, Grantaire presses another kiss to his forehead and two fingers to his left temple. Enjolras collapses against him and he catches him in his arms. He allows himself to hold him there for just a moment before he lays his sleeping form gently on the sofa.

And then he spreads his wings and takes flight.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WANT TO KNOW WHAT ENJOLRAS WAS UP TO WHILE HE WAS OFFSCREEN? Unfortunately his POV chapter isn't quite done yet, but it will be soon. Hopefully. So keep checking 'I Will Fear No Evil (For You Are With Me)' for that, because it will hopefully explain anything that seems unclear here!


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